Back at the beach for our yearly tradition (year nine, for those of us counting).
Last summer, I wrote about Mary Oliver and living while I sat in the sun.
This time, I’ve written a letter and a terrible poem that might not always be terrible.
I’ve also consumed a lot of ice cream.
I’ve talked about missions (still on the brain), and I’ve helped grill twelve cheeseburgers, two bratwursts, and roughly six hotdogs.
I’ve made a rockin’ potato salad.
I’ve been grateful that Dunks is a mile away and I’m shocked they don’t know my order by now.
I’ve wandered down to the water in the dark, making Gramma nervous but coming back in due time.
I’ve people-watched like a champ, playing “inner monologue” and creating bizarre plot lines to strangers’ lives (I hope they don’t mind…they’re quite entertaining).
I’ve walked the beach three times a day, and seen how the light changes against the sand.
And now, I sit.
