17 August 2019
The proms played over the old radio as Korsakoff competed with the sound of the crashing waves. What Proms is this? We must be into the 30’s, at least. Russian night. Rachmoninoff followed with his airy romance. What a crooner.
I took a sip of wine between rows. The small jumper was starting to take shape. It is my first attempt at anything substantial. I felt it was time to move past hats and scarves.
The girls were in bed but not sleeping. Jakob worked on his watercolour painting of the chalet. Sometimes my life feels like a watercolour painting. Translucent – the colours bleeding into one another creating a dream-like blur. Nothing solid, nothing to hold on to, nothing to keep me grounded.
As light slipped from the endless horizon the fishermen who lined the shore persisted, most with two, maybe more poles cast into the turbulent waves. Perhaps their small shelters were more effective than appeared.
My eyes grew heavy and, if I am honest, filled with tears – tears I’d held in for what seemed like months. A liquid release of the stress and anxiety I constantly try to repress. Feelings of of failure, remorse, regret and too many what-if’s and if-only’s wash over me.
If not here, then where? Only here can I really let go – become unhinged.
I cried as Ben tried to comfort me. I lay in bed listening to the crashing of the waves upon the shore and watched the blue lights attached to the top of the fishing poles. Both them and I, waiting for the moment when all of our work and patience might pay off.
Tomorrow will be better.
18 August 2019
It always is.
It rained last night but beyond the water spots the grey sky was splattered with blue. Blue on grey, or grey on blue?
By the time coffee was made it was grey on blue and soon, just a vibrant, pure blue.
As per my typical morning ritual, I sat with my coffee and my Bible, but this time God came in [the] waves, (as he often does). Psalm 139. Not by choice but simply the next Psalm on my yearly reading schedule. The cool morning breeze rushed off the sea and across my face as waves pounded the shore – not in anger but in rhythm. I have always been convinced that my heart beats to the rhythm of the waves. The ocean is home.
At breakfast again, Ben’s choice, without knowing, Psalm 139, You search me and know me…perhaps the only one – most certainly more than myself. I thought life would be so different. But why?
The morning moved slow. The kids played on the beach and when I was ready, I went for a run. The South West Coast path – the dream. One day I would love to hike all 631 miles of it but today, I didn’t even make it a mile. The ascents and descents, the rocky trail, the stairs and switchbacks were too much for my weak spirit. Perhaps it was the three cups of coffee or perhaps it was the awe-inspiring and completely dizzying views making me feel nauseous– either way, this morning there was more walking than running. On the way back, I took the Hooked cliffs, which proved a much more friendly terrain.
After lunch, we walked into the little town of Branscombe and visited the Forge, the Manor Mill and the quaint old bakery serving the most delicious home-made scones to accompany cream tea.
After supper, when I went out to take some photos of the evening light, I noticed a commotion by the café and dragged the family over just in time to hear the last number by a small brass band – Onward Christian Soldiers. As I turned around to make sure we hadn’t let anyone behind a rainbow stretched across the sky.