This July
Most July fourth weeks have me hanging out and celebrating with extended family in the two-storied house at the Jersey shore we've been renting for decades. Always there are bags of books by my bedside including four journals—one my own, one started on the day my daughter was born, one on the day we brought my son home, and one for my grandson.
Most mornings, I'd sit on the deck overlooking the ocean and read and write before other family members were awake. Some mornings instead of reading or writing, I'd walk with my daughter and later my son looking for shells and sand dollars. More recently I walked with my grandson, collecting shells and fighting beach ninjas. Eventually I'd end up back on the deck, the sounds and smells of the ocean now mingling with the sounds and smells of Theresa-in-the-kitchen. It's only one week, but always that fourth of July week centered me, reminded me of the bonds of family and gifted me with a sense of gratitude and awe.
Things are different this July. I haven't seen my extended family for months and my grandson swims in a small inflatable pool in our backyard. Shops and restaurants are opening up, but the rising numbers of Covid cases throughout the country (and the inflatable pool in the backyard) are a daily reminders that life has changed. There are still books to be read and walks to be taken— the scenery here in upstate New York is different than the Jersey Shore, but no less beautiful. A turtle crosses the road, cows graze in the farm across the way and I am reminded how lucky I am to be surrounded by such beauty.
In my last post I talked about George Floyd. The clamor of the protests that followed and the clamor of our political discord amid my covid-induced isolation somehow created a chasm inside me as wide and deep as the ocean. From the hinterlands of history to the present moment I hear the echo of the enslaved and abused.
This July, I'm doing my best to listen and learn, determined that that the words I speak and the words I write help shape a more beautiful world for everyone.
Most mornings, I'd sit on the deck overlooking the ocean and read and write before other family members were awake. Some mornings instead of reading or writing, I'd walk with my daughter and later my son looking for shells and sand dollars. More recently I walked with my grandson, collecting shells and fighting beach ninjas. Eventually I'd end up back on the deck, the sounds and smells of the ocean now mingling with the sounds and smells of Theresa-in-the-kitchen. It's only one week, but always that fourth of July week centered me, reminded me of the bonds of family and gifted me with a sense of gratitude and awe.
Things are different this July. I haven't seen my extended family for months and my grandson swims in a small inflatable pool in our backyard. Shops and restaurants are opening up, but the rising numbers of Covid cases throughout the country (and the inflatable pool in the backyard) are a daily reminders that life has changed. There are still books to be read and walks to be taken— the scenery here in upstate New York is different than the Jersey Shore, but no less beautiful. A turtle crosses the road, cows graze in the farm across the way and I am reminded how lucky I am to be surrounded by such beauty.
In my last post I talked about George Floyd. The clamor of the protests that followed and the clamor of our political discord amid my covid-induced isolation somehow created a chasm inside me as wide and deep as the ocean. From the hinterlands of history to the present moment I hear the echo of the enslaved and abused.
This July, I'm doing my best to listen and learn, determined that that the words I speak and the words I write help shape a more beautiful world for everyone.
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