na foine ting
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
I don't take meds.
Sometimes part of me wants to believe there is a Magic Pill, you know, and in fact knows that if someone messed around with combinations of drugs long enough, all this might go away.
Or, more likely, it wouldn't.
Some things are surefire. Friends, my family. A hug from my kid, who assures me I am "not too crazy" and is largely unfazed by my behavior.
Other things also help.
Like noon at Sunny Cove, with Gavin scrambling down the cliff behind me, while the last of the surly morning fog subsides under the idiotic cheerfulness of the summer sun.
Things like waves that cross the cove on the diagonal, big enough to get up some speed but easy to catch and not big enough to pound the crap out of me if my attention wanders and I get under rather than on one.
Things like a bright purple boogie board which technically belongs to Gavin but I am still allowed to use, at least until later in the day when I get under rather than on a wave and somewhere in the ensuing tumble down the beach it finally splits in half.
I lay in the gentle sun and listened to Gavin and his new friend discuss the best way to slay tentacled cliff dragons, wet and tired from surfing and watching the dolphins that were playing out there, not far from where the surfers were.
I made a few calls, mostly because I felt guilty for hogging all the relaxation and enjoyment for myself.
Then I gave up, and after a brief interlude where I played the part of the massive slavering tentacled cliff dragon (until I'd been slain several times and the heroes needed a snack), flopped back out in the sun and simply was blissed out for a while again.
We get caught up in our patterns of suffering, so much so that we forget that there are ways, obvious ways, to alleviate them.
A phone call, a cup of coffee and conversation. Telling the truth about where we are.
Surfing, making sandcastles.
Dozing in the sun.
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