I don’t know that this is Maine, but let’s pretend it is. I’d like to go there. In the begining of November, as it starts to get cold, and sit on the beach. Maybe watch a storm come in from a porch while eating fresh seafood and sipping on some perfectly crafted cocktail.
I have no idea where the urge is coming from, in this exact moment to comment on this passing fantasy. But I’ll take it. It’s 4:30 on a Friday and I am not running around chasing my tail. I am sitting at my desk taking a few personal moments – there was not lunch time today- and my deep breathing is aided by a dream of the oceans roar, salty air, and distance from the white noise of the city (and probably most accurately, the hospital).
I look forward to a day when instead of Maine, maybe we pack up our cars from our (shared?!) west coast city and take whatever family collection we have, and spend a weekend on the oregon coast, or big sur, or something.
the moment of grad school-full time job-marathon running-fellowship-cross country-ness will have passed and there will indeed be some time for shared resting.