One of my favorite things to do during the long Alaska twilight nights is walk on the beach along Cook Inlet. There’s something about the twilight that invigorates me, causes my blood to thump and my heart to beat faster, and sometimes if I’m very still and keep my ears open, I swear I can hear the water speak to me, not in words but in movement and an odd salted silence.
When I wade out in the cold water the pull of the tide reminds me of the contractions I experienced during my son’s birth, and always a flutter deep in my abdomen, as if my body too remembers that pain, and that gift.
I also love driftwood, don’t you? There’s something remarkable yet ordinary about that smooth and bleached wood.
I took a photo of this dead sea-gull, I don’t know why. Because I found the contrast of the white wings against the dark sand incredibly beauty; and because I’m writing about death in my second novel and wanted a testimony or reminder that death happens all around us, every day and every minute, and we rarely notice, we keep walking confidently toward the future we all believe we deserve.
This water tower looms near the beach path trailhead at Point Woronzof and it’s covered with spray painted messages. I’ve always wanted to write something deep and profound but when a teenaged girl handed me a can of lime green spray paint last week, I ended up writing my dog’s name instead, I suppose because she’s old and limpy and I want her name to live forever, or at least until someone spray paints over it.
A tribute to the Beebs.
Umm, she doesn’t look very impressed with the fact that her name decorates a water tower, does she?
Writing goal for this week: 20 hours
Hours that I actually wrote: 16 hours
Oops: Four hours short, sigh, sigh