I can feel the tug, the magnetic force attracting me to my summertime mecca, the beach in western Michigan. It’s so strong this time of year I believe I could sail there without my compass, maybe even without lifting my anchor. There is something magical about this annual pilgrimage. I’ve noticed over the years that I am usually at my best here, and as I eagerly pack my bag for a few days of estivation I’m contemplating the reasons why.
I’ve referenced “Gift from the Sea”, written in 1955, in a previous blog post (Scalar, Sunday July 1, 2012 http://yourwindlass.blogspot.com/2012/07/scalar.html). It’s compelling in the timeless way Anne Morrow Lindbergh describes the complications in life faced by American women. Plus ça change, plus c' est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The premise of her book is that when we are at the beach, life is lived in its most simple form. There is a natural shedding of all but that which is essential. And through this outward simplification we find the strength and grace inside to be our best selves. I can’t say I disagree.
A trip to the beach is in some ways similar to my annual Madison to Chicago relay race, in that beauty products don’t cross the state line. Swimsuits, a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts are all that is required. Given that the cottage we stay in was built in the 1920’s, modern plumbing was an afterthought. The lone shower, accessed from the back porch, is a deserted haunt. The boys and I prefer to help ourselves to the grooming products free for the taking in the great outdoors: The voluminous freshwater bathtub that is the lake and the stiff wind at the shore affectionately known as nature’s hairdryer. My companions on this trip once told me they like me in my natural state. I choose to think they weren’t just being polite. I like me this way too.
There is something about the beach that makes a rustic cabin the ideal living quarters. Equipped with no more than the basics, everything is vintage, weathered and worn; well-loved by the generations of people who created lasting memories of joy, revelry and solace in this abode. The sand on the floor and in the beds, a condition intolerable on the home front, feels like it belongs here to be relished rather than removed. We drop off to sleep with the windows wide open, the waves in the distance singing sweetly a never-ending lullaby.
And the stars, well, they take my breath away. There is little in life I find more intoxicating than the beach after dark on a clear night. Remote from the overpowering glow of city life, even the shy, retiring stars can’t help but put in an appearance. Who knew the sky bursts with so many of these twinkling, glimmering points of light? Here I discover the daring to sneak in underneath them for a stealth dip in the water; the ultimate paring of any pretense.
Yet the true force of the freedom and abandon I uncover here comes from the total sense of belonging and acceptance I’m filled with by the friends who so generously share this treasure with me. As my son says, these are our real friends, the ones who let us be ourselves. We each own a deep and intensely personal love for this place, agape and connected by our desire to protect with ferocity our slice of heaven on earth.
It’s so much more than where we are; it’s who we are when we are here.
We make plans based solely on what the day looks and feels like. We eat, sleep and run whenever and wherever we choose. We lose track of time, routinely and readily. We breathe easier and more deeply. We loosen the reins we hold on our ever-growing boys. We loosen the reins we hold on ourselves. And in this casting away of all structure, comes the revelation that we are becoming more real and precious to each other.
This year, I’m committing to leave behind permanently some of the complications in life I shed so easily at the beach, those things that distract me, so that all my energy and attention is there for what matters. The sea girl in me will bring home what is most valuable: The capacity to let go and recreate the inimitable feeling of release that comes when my tired body flattens into the sun-warmed sand, lashes pull the covers over my eyes, and the wind and surf drown out all other sound around me, leaving no choice but to find the peace that’s inside.
“One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach – waiting for a gift from the sea.” --Anne Morrow Lindbergh
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