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summer living

August 10, 2011

To say that I am happy here would be like saying that the ocean is deeper than a swimming pool.

I’m sleeping better than I have in ages. I am being bleached and freckled by the sun and can’t get enough of the marshes. Oddly enough, I haven’t gone swimming once. I’ve been too busy wading and crabbing and digging up bits of old pier and watching the jellyfish in the canals. I have done absolutely nothing to justify my existence.

And I have never felt so alive.

My hair has become a sort of tribute to Medusa: salt stiff, and standing off my head in bleached white shafts. My nails are surrounded in black marsh mud and my feet are cut from clamming the old school way.

I fall into bed each night, feeling like every movement I have made has been sun-warmed prayer. I hope God thinks the same thing, because I’m falling asleep too quickly to thank Him properly.

I’m not cooking or cleaning much. I haven’t been online, because there’s no internet access. I’m walking miles for a single clamming rake and buying lemonade from children because I’m actually thirsty. I’m getting dirty, picking up driftwood, dreaming of Atlantis.

I’m waving to shrimpers, and they’re waving back.

I think I could get used to this kind of living.

5 Comments leave one →
  1. Denney permalink
    August 11, 2011 8:06 am

    Great Post

  2. Denney permalink
    August 11, 2011 8:08 am

    P.S. Spoken like a true “Sally…”

  3. September 5, 2011 9:00 pm

    Chincoteague does that to you! I know.


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