New York smells like garbage today and the crowds in Time Square reminded me that hell is other people. This is what I feel like doing instead: sweeping sand through the cracks in the wood floor of a beach-house porch. Napping to the sound of crashing waves in the distance and waking to a fresh ocean breeze.
Whenever I go to the beach I feel like I should walk along the shore getting my feet wet and collecting shells. But I don’t really collect shells.
Regardless, this is a peaceful image that I return to over and over again when the city seems too much for me. When the calm of my morning yoga is interrupted by an 18-wheeler chugging past the window. When the bodega down the street doesn’t have ANY organic produce in stock. These are luxurious problems, I know. And I’m sure the beach house would have its own faults.
But right now even a leaky beach-house faucet seems appealing.
(I’m on Day 3 of a cleanse – just removing processed and refined foods – much like I did last fall. It was good for me to look back and see how I felt at that time, too. Right now, I’m still at the sleepy, headachey stage. But I expect to be over the hump soon enough.)