Collections

My first two weeks back on the coast were spent sorting through my belongings and helping my parents sort through the house. I had held on to little trinkets through the years, keeping them as reminders of happy days and who I once was. But after driving a car full of my things 4000 miles, constantly worrying about what might happen (and forgetting to lock the car when hiking in Yosemite), I needed to reduce the bulk in my life. After all, these things do not define who I am, it is my relationships, my hopes and dreams, and the way in which I see the world that creates me. It was difficult and stressful, but highly rewarding to rid myself of unnecessary items.

My mom and I had a garage sale of all the things we had decided to discard. Excited shoppers arrived at 7:30 am, and I had to open the garage door while my tea steeped and my granola soaked in almond milk in the kitchen. By the time 9 am rolled around (the actual starting time), there was a lull, and about a third of our things had already been bought and we finally had time to organize and eat a soggy breakfast.

The sale was a success! Everything left over, we donated to Goodwill and the public library. And I felt a little lighter having gotten rid of things that had been holding me back, keeping me in the past.
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My grandma, my mom's mom, isn't doing well. I flew to North Carolina with my mom in order to see her, hoping that she might still remember who I am. When we walked around the corner of the nursing home and I saw her sitting in a chair, I could hardly believe that it was her. Her blue eyes had trouble focusing, and she seemed unable to form words in response. Her mouth was set in a permanent frown, a bleak contrast to the bright smile that used to lite up her face. Her hands, bent with arthritis, searched out others, and I gave her mine, hoping to give her comfort.

In the mid-90s in Marion, NY, she played with me and my sister in her backyard. The ball rolled into a hole and I picked it up only to find myself swarmed by yellowjackets. We ran into the house, my sister swatted at bees in the kitchen and I retreated to the bathroom with my grandma. I was crying and screaming, covered in bees and my grandma calmed me down, picking bees off of me, one at a time, squishing them between her fingers.

My grandparents had a garden, but as they grew older they stopped planting vegetables and what was left were rows of raspberry bushes. When we visited in the summer, my sister and I would pick Japanese beetles off of the leaves and put them in a little bucket of water. Then, we counted them as we tossed them down the food disposal in the sink, and grandma gave us a penny for every beetle.
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Three Willets, searching for a feast in the shallow water in the St. Louis Bay.

I went for a walk on the beach today. I left my book, snacks, towel, phone, and shoes in the car and walked barefoot across the sand and through the shallow waters carrying only my camera. There is nothing quite as joyous and carefree as walking barefoot, feeling the ground beneath your feet.

The wet sand squeezed between my toes as I waded in the water. Little mounds of sand speckled the shallows, crawfish! hiding under the sand, out of sight. Blue dragonflies and little butterflies quickly flitted by, disappearing against the blue water and sky. Three willets walked on their stilt-legs, dropping their long beaks into the water to grab a snack. They flew away, startled, when I walked by. My feet skimmed the top of the water, making splashes, and I felt like a kid, kicked the water, and watched as it splashed and broke into little droplets, falling again into itself.

The sun, the sand, the chirping of birds, the warm breeze, the cool water--it helped my mind and body relax and forget about yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I am here, now, alive.