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.