May be golden, but in the case of blogging, may also be a sign of life over-drive. Too busy to reflect. Too busy to breathe deeply.
This weekend at the ripe old age of 52, I heard a sound that tickled me from toe to soul. While on girl’s weekend with my beautiful daughters I heard the sound of beach rocks rolling in the surf. If you’ve never heard it, you don’t realize the magic. If you have, you might call it a “rock concert.” My commitment to reminiscence and the importance of using all the senses is re-energized. We shared magic in the sound.
I smelled Spring scents and heard Spring sounds I had forgotten after six years in the south. The riot of Spring is a small whisper in the south. But in Martha’s Vineyard I inhaled the magic scents of lilac, lily of the valley, and even some early honeysuckle. I woke to the raucous mating calls of birds who had weathered a tough winter or returned from distant warm climates to find a mate and a nesting spot. Take about a seasonal crescendo!
We shared the wild turkey moments as he strutted the backyard and the chicken moments with a flock of hens with young peeps and a vigilant rooster. Most of all we reveled in our solidarity as family, as women, as survivors who had taken the time to re-connect and entwine arms for the next part of our journey. It was a grand weekend to be savored and turned over and over as the rocks at the foot of the Red Cliffs– faintly resembling an appreciative audience clapping. Bravo.