Ebb and Flow

Gosh, I love the beach. Not the 'laying in the sun and swimming in the summer' beach so much as the 'watching the waves crash against the lighthouse in the winter' beach. In fact, that latter beach is exactly when and where my husband proposed to me 800 years ago.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy laying in the sun AND swimming. I don't enjoy all the people. I won't lie to you and say I'm an introvert, because I'm not. I like to socialize on a fairly regular basis - I like big parties, theatre friends crashing a Steak and Shake after a big rehearsal, loud music, family gatherings.

But I also crave silence. I live in a small house with loud people, one of which is... well, me... and two annoyingly barky small dogs. There's always background noise: television, music playing on Alexa, squirrels and neighbors being barked at, someone's car bass thumping outside my window, a fan on while everyone sleeps, a kid who constantly sings, clicks, drums, or just talks - to us, to himself to his friends. Two hard-of-hearing adults who need the TV up loud WITH captions to hear it right. Water running, toilets flushing, airplanes overhead, neighbors arguing...

I need both. I need the ebb and the flow. I can't thrive solely in one or the other. I can't create in constant silence or constant noise. Even Jesus left the crowds to go wandering off alone, so I try not to doubt myself when I feel like I need to get away from everyone and everything for awhile. I have to remember that it doesn't make me a bad person, or a bad wife, or a bad mom.

On those days, I just want to sit on the beach alone, watching the waves silently devour the shoreline, depositing a small stick and taking some sand. I want to hear the gulls overhead crabbing at each other over a discarded french fry. I want smell the lake water, feel the breeze against my cheek, pull my hoodie around my neck a little closer and taste the frosty air.

I want the ebb.

I want the flow.

This is how I remember how to live.