Morning. Coast of Maine. Clear after three days of fog. The horizon visible for the first time since we’ve been here. Blue water, blue sky.
I drink coffee on the shale ledge, watch the tide go out, and wait for the heron to come and catch minnows in the shallows. The milk snake that slithers across the rocks on hot mornings is nowhere to be seen. Offshore, the lobsterman pulls traps from the back of his white boat.
When I think of a perfect morning, this is what I imagine. Here is where I’ve been wanting to be for weeks. Now here, the coffee half gone, the sound of breaking waves, the smell of beach roses and seaweed. The lone gull floating in the inlet takes flight, circles, and with a gentle splash returns to the water.
Always seeing the world through words. Can I write and be present to my surroundings at the same time? Where are you as you read this?
The sun warms my face. The towels on the line may actually dry. Sun screen and bug spray on the shelf by the screen door. We prepare for what’s likely to happen. The breeze picks up, still gentle.
Why is it so difficult to be in the present moment? Why am I obsessed with experiencing the instant in which I exist—the one I’m already in and and can’t possibly leave?
The tide continues its in-and-out business. My questions bore the ocean.