If rocks and shells could talk, these would laugh, whistle and shout. Look at us, they’d say. Someone has picked us up off the beach, spiffed us up, cast us as heroes in a crazy beach novel.
Here we are telling a joke:
Here we are sharing a tale:
We have no idea why we were willed into being, what our creator has in mind for us. But for now, we are alive and transformed on this Gulf Coast beach.
The sounds I heard outside this morning didn’t make sense. Were the taps and creaks from errant branches, from the building warming in the tropical sun? Only when I looked out the window did I see the rain.
It doesn’t matter; I have plenty to do inside as well as out. I brought books and notes and half-finished essays. Brain food. Things to think about and read.
A trip to the beach rests the body and the mind. So I sleep more, worry less (or try to!) and ignore weather reports. How long will it rain? The clouds are dark, but I see some blue. Did the storm break the humidity?
Only one way to find out. I’ll finish this post and my morning pages, then dip my toes into the day.
I had no sooner written about Japanese forest bathing than I read about “grounding,” which is … walking outside barefoot. Grounding, also known as “earthing,” is a way of touching base with the essentials. Those who favor it say that it might help prevent chronic diseases, and research shows that it can improve sleep and lower stress.
Sounds touchy-feely (in more ways than one!) … and yet, consider this: One theory that explains the positive effect of grounding is that earth’s negative charge neutralizes the free radicals that can damage our cells. Antioxidants not from fruits and vegetables but from the earth itself.
And then there is the circadian rhythm aspect of grounding, the fact that touching ground can help regulate our autonomic nervous system, our breathing out and our breathing in.
The article in the Washington Post explaining this research ended with suggestions: Walk barefoot on ground or sand (something I’ll be doing in a few minutes, as a matter of fact!). Garden in the earth, or even lean against a tree trunk.
We are only beginning to understand how connected we are to the natural world around us.
I’m looking at a tall banana tree now, at a big leaf in the process of shredding. A plant that bends but does not break. Palm trees don’t crash to the ground in a tropical storm. They sway but stay rooted. That would be different, not having to worry about the great oaks falling.
Would I tire of the sameness here? Maybe … or maybe not.
The long drive begins like any other: settling into the seat, snapping on the belt, adjusting the mirror. And for the first few hours, it feels like any other, too: staring at the road, flipping through a newspaper (only if you’re not driving!), munching on cereal or pretzels.
But the long drive quickly asserts itself in the mind and body. An exit that would normally herald a resting place is just a milepost, barely a quarter of the way into the trip. The hopeful slant of morning sun quickly fades into the desolate phantom-puddled pavement of mid-afternoon. And as darkness falls you are still far from home.
The long drive is made bearable by good company, by podcasts — and, of course, by snacks. Cereal in the morning, pretzels in the afternoon, an apple, a Snapple and Fresh Mint Tic Tacs, which prop open even the heaviest of eyelids.
The best part of the long drive is the final few feet, pulling into the driveway, hearing Copper bark, knowing a bed — a familiar bed — is waiting upstairs.
Yesterday, for the “retreat” part of this work week in Arkansas, we drove an hour and a half west to Petit Jean Mountain. It was where the organization I work for began — and a place that holds special memories for me.
I spent most of the day at a conference room inside, but there were a few minutes at the beginning and end of the day when I could walk to the brow of the hill and savor the view — the big puffy clouds casting shadows on the fields, the hawks soaring high above the pines, the two mountain ranges that draw the gaze ever westward.
It was a view that captivated me decades ago — and still does. I thought about why. It’s more than just the beauty, I think. It’s also the promise and perspective, metaphor for a nation that once stretched its legs across a continent and took its strength from people and from place.
On Tuesday, my colleagues and I drove two-and-a-half hours south to see some of the work we’ve done in a small town called Lake Village.
It’s a pretty little place, situated on the banks of the largest natural oxbow lake in the country. Before visiting I had no idea there were any oxbow lakes in the country, natural or un-. Lake Chicot was formed when the Mississippi River shifted course 800 years ago. It was discovered by the French explorer Lasalle in 1685.
It was 95 degrees and dusty in the Delta (we were only eight miles from Mississippi), but looking at Lake Chicot cooled me off a bit. Enough that I decided to take a stroll along it and see the cypress trees with their knobby knees.
A book group friend recommended this book, the tale of a young man who walked across America and listened to the voices of vagabonds and preachers, beauticians and firefighters.
Andrew Forsthoefel was newly graduated from Middlebury College when he decided to make the journey. “Everyone of us has an extraordinary story worth hearing, and I’m walking the country to listen,” he wrote on his travel blog at the beginning of the trip.
Admitting it might sound contrived, but resolved to do it anyway, Forsthoefel quickly gained my trust when he told the story of his leave-taking. His mother was worried but brave. She acts like I hope I would if one of my children announced she was walking across the country. The picture she snaps of her son walking down the train tracks behind their house in Pennsylvania is priceless. It’s the picture of a young adult doing his own thing, back turned to the camera, arms outstretched as if to say, enough, I’m done, catch ‘ya later.
Needless to say, he survives the trip — and gets a book contract, to boot. He only just reached Georgia, so I imagine I’ll have more to say about Walking to Listen.
Let me close for today with a passage about walking:
The walking itself was slowly become my home, or something like it. It was the only constant, the connective thread that tied everything together.
(Photo: Courtesy Bloomsbury Press)
Homesickness is when you long for the place you know best of all. But what about its opposite? Wanting to venture to a place you’ve never been? It’s a feeling deeper than wanderlust, stronger than attachment. Until the other day, I didn’t know it has a name.
Farsickness —or “fernweh” from the German “fern” (far) and “weh” (pain) is when you yearn for a place you’ve never been, for the faraway. I heard about it on the radio, and a quick Google search shows me the word has been out there for a while. There are “Fernweh” t-shirts and “Farsickness” travel blogs.
Digging a little deeper I learn that the word “homesick” also entered our language from the German — “heimweh.” It comes from a Swiss dialect and can also mean longing for the mountains. Ah, I think, just like Heidi. Remember when she’s sent to Frankfurt and entertains Clara but all she wants is to go back and live with her grandfather on the mountain?
To have “fernweh” we need “heimweh.” The familiar propels us to the faraway — then brings us home again.
I grew up on road trips — long, car-sick journeys to Cincinnati, Greensburg or Natural Bridge. Kentucky is rolling country, so driving through it is not for the faint of stomach. Dramamine was my friend.
