Sand. I wonder why sand feels so good.
In my car. In my house. In my sandwich. In between my toes. Sand is awesome. Even when you plan a beach weekend with friends? And you drive real far to get there? And you pack up all your beach chairs and your swimsuit and your sunscreen and your Coronas and your bug spray and the two-person beach towel that your husband’s wacky aunt gave you as a “congratulations you’re dating” present years ago? And then it rains most of the weekend? Even then, sand makes it all ok.
I’m an oceanfront lovin’ girl. Sea air makes the hair curly and piecey, how I like it. It makes the skin taste salty. Beach walking exfoliates the feet, exercises the calves, and leads to contented contemplation. One seems so small next to the enormity of the ocean. The immediacy of the cold. The inevitability of the tide. The sand on which you beach-walk is a great metaphor, useful in deep thinking. Big things get broken up into little things. You get enough little pieces of things together and build a totally new thing, called the beach. Or you look at the little pieces one at a time and they sparkle. When you set your Corona down in it, it holds the bottle up. Sand is excellent.
Even this short somewhat chilly weekend with friends at their beach house was enough to regenerate. We sat in the sand with blankets, digging our toes around, massaging it into our hands, lifting it and shaking it out and doodling with one finger. The time with friends felt good. The sea air felt great. And the sand, warmed up by the sun, scratchy on my legs, scritchy in my ears, scrunchy in my sandwich. It felt very good, like it always does.
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Sand. I love sand. Between my toes, on my towel, in my drink. Maybe it feels so good because it represents relaxation for most people? I don't know, but whatever it is...it's good stuff!
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