Tuesday Slice of Life : June 21, 2016.
Every Monday rolls around and I tell myself that this is the day. This is the day to think about writing just because . . . Not for a project. Not for an assignment. Not because I need a model for a lesson. But just because I like the feel of words flowing from my mind through my fingers to the clean white screen. Just because I like watching letters pop up and words form as I think my thoughts. Just because I like to pause and read what I just thought.
And so, as Monday began to unfold yesterday, I thought about SOL16. I thought, I can write during the flights from Portland to Phoenix and on to El Paso. But I didn’t. There was too much turbulence and I was more content to rest my head against the seat back, close my eyes, and let the fresh memories of the previous week replay.
They are memories full of sand and surf and broken shells. Of wind, and rain that connected the vast ocean to the endless sky, blurring the horizon, making them one. Of the sun painting a vibrant watercolor of lights on the canvas of sky and sea. Of the endless roar of breakers, crashing and churning. Of the lights of the fishing boats, beacons in the darkness.
They are memories of the bald eagle that waited for his breakfast each morning where the waters of the creek mingle with the tide. Memories of the little wrens who chirped their delightful morning and evening love songs while perched on a tall, skinny branch on the hedge beneath my bedroom balcony. Memories of the clawed green Otto Bear Saver garbage cans –evidence that somewhere a brown bear lurked, lured by the scent of bacon drippings we deposited in the special locking cans.
But most of all, they are memories full of those I love–three generations in one big house on the edge of the sand and surf. We number 26; the youngest is three, the oldest… well, let’s just say that she has stopped counting the years.
I cannot pen words to contain our laughter mingled with shouts as games were played around the tables, in the media room, and on the sand along with the cries of excitement as our kites sailed high on the wind. I cannot begin to describe the beach walks, the endless root beer floats, the meals (I mean the preparation more than the eating), and the gathering around a fire pit to roast hot dogs and toast marshmallows for giant-sized s’mores. Family. Together.
And so… right now, in the quiet of my hotel room, when I should be preparing for another PD day– my memories are too full to write a single slice of life . . . I will try again next Tuesday.
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