A Day at the Beach

I am at the beach and having my week alone. The cottage I rented is perfect. It’s like a doll house. A one person house with living room, office area, small dining area and a kitchen. There is one small bedroom with space for one double bed, a night table with clock and lamp, and a small built-in counter that serves as a vanity. There are lamps everywhere. This is a house for reading. The woman who owns the house is a photographer and it makes sense. It’s a teeny tiny house with perfect lighting. Anywhere you sit you can also read.

I have come here to write and I have come here to remember me. I need to remember me before him. I need to feel my edges again. I need to recall what I like to read, eat and watch on TV. That is one of the surprises. Watching the tiny television—everything is doll sized, my sized—I watch Gossip Girls and Desperate Housewives. I do not watch baseball. In the car I listen to WGBH—Boston’s NPR station. I like the news, I like the political analysis. This is better NPR than we have at home. I brought music and I brought spiritual talks on CD but I love listening to WGBH. I do not listen to music.

I do not wear makeup here. I take a shower at midday after I have been writing and after I have been to the beach. My hair is fine without a blow-dryer. I look at my face without makeup. This is my face. This is me.

I am at home here. Inside this cottage and inside of me. I do not want to give this up.