It was January 20th, two Fridays ago, when I gazed out my window in the morning at the familiar gray and green. Everything felt fresh and clean and suddenly spring-like, after several days in which the rain washed away all of our snow and ice —and, most importantly, my car was freed from its icy cage. Of course, spring in the Pacific Northwest means buckets of rain, long before any leaves or flowers appear. And this was January, so I shouldn't be expecting spring just yet.
But I heard the cry of a seagull. I looked up; it was perched up on the telephone pole outside my window.
And in that moment, my heart ached. It longed for the sea, as it does every spring, when I feel a moist breeze against my cheek, and feel the freshness awakening in the air around me.
But it's not spring yet, heart.
Last year I didn't get to go to the beach in spring. I did get a wonderful, sunny trip in summer, made possible by an excellent friend, but there's something about springtime that makes my soul long for a melancholy, meditative beach.
It's a trip for reflection, for breathing, for letting my tears talk to God in the stillness and the peace and the dune grass. Such a trip would be difficult to achieve with all but the rarest individuals.
But the transmission in my car is leaking. I get it topped off regularly to keep me afloat, but it wouldn't be cost-effective to fix, because my car is over 15 years old. Last year I didn't drive to the beach because I was concerned about having car troubles on such a long drive. I was also somewhat distracted by my ill health, which sapped me of strength and required a lot of rest.
So this morning two weeks ago, I resolved that I will make it to the beach during springtime. I will top off my transmission when I get there. I will get some extra health treatments in before I leave, so I will have enough energy for the long drive. I will plan out a cooler full of food, since my sensitive body and pre-modern diet prevent me from eating at most restaurants. Plus, eating at restaurants alone makes me feel lonely. I'd rather eat weird food on a bench on the boardwalk, watching the ocean, and talking with God.
But until then, every time I hear a seagull, or feel the wind picking up, with rain in its wings, a piece of my heart packs its bags for the sea.
