Sunday art

No photo can capture the peacefulness of watching the waves come in, as I sit at a safe distance, in the shade, looking out at the sky and the clouds.

From here I can't feel the sandy water rush forward around my feet, hiding them; I don't feel waves progressively larger crashing into my body and threatening to knock me down or drag me away.

I can hear the sounds, but they're not as loud as when I am in the middle of the water, with everything swirling around me.

I have looked forward to this trip since it was offered to us - because who doesn't want a few days at the beach? - but also because it signifies Done.

It was a distraction all through radiation - "...and then we're going to the cape."

Now here we are, and time has slowed to endless late summer days of exploring lighthouses (and P-town) and sitting on the beach.

I am letting go of the day to day battle of thinking about being sick every five minutes or less. No more undertow of activity around me with procedures and complications and struggling to get my head up out of one wave of chemo after another.

I am grateful to be alive and well, and just sitting looking at the waves.

Some time ago my friend's husband was in a horrible car accident that disfigured his face. She said to me, '...he doesn't look like David anymore'. I said, in what I meant to be kind (but now wonder if I was unintentionally cruel) "but he looks like who he is now, and you still have him". I don't like those words echoing back to me when I am looking into the mirror. But I know they are true. I don't look like "me" anymore, but I'm not who I was. But I still have me. I still get to BE me.