The sandflats are waterlogged right now, after a week? ten days? two weeks? of almost nonstop rain. Finding a moment to turn my face up towards the sky and catch the sun has demanded a bit of prophecy, a dash of good luck, and an unhealthy attachment to watching the radar.
But last night I went for a walk under the first starry sky I'd seen in a long, long time. And seeing those pinpricks of light in the inky black sky flooded me with hope for a similarly clear sky in the morning.
The night was thick with humidity, my hair curled against my neck. The air hung heavy with water vapor and sulfurous smoke from neighborhood fireworks. The frogs sounded out their symphony. Some screamed, some actually said "Ribbit."
I kept looking up at the sky, at the stars. I thought about how one individual star doesn't mean much, in the massive firmament. We have assigned places in constellations to find them. Patterns we have found in the sky. Above all, I kept hoping this clear night sky meant a clear morning.
I have so missed the sun.
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Today's holiday dawned shrouded in mist. I made coffee, packed my car, and headed to the beach.
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To Surf City.
To sand dunes.
To waves.
To sun.
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For nearly four hours, I basked, I walked, I swam, I surfed, I read, I watched, and I loved.
The waves pounded the beach - churning up sand, turning the ocean at the shore brown.
Walking alone down the beach, I looked at people - on the shore, at the water's edge, in the ocean. The towheaded ten year old boy surfing with grace; the chubby two year girl flopping around and squealing with delight; the leather-skinned couple holding hands as the shuffled along. I thought about these people - these individual stars - and wondered, if I stared long enough, if I would be able to see the constellations they formed. If I could divine their connections to the bodies around them.
And I was reminded that I had a place, whether I can see it or not.
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(I am so glad they were right about the sun coming back.)
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