Purple, red and white clouds that had been hugging the eastern shore finally blew out to sea this morning and a magnificent sun high in the sky. The waves were softly kissing the sand and a breeze blew sand from the north end of the island to the south end. Everything was so fresh and clear that I could easily see the details of Hilton Head just across the mouth of the Savannah River. Massive Cargo Ships were lined up for miles and will make their way up the river throughout the day to the Ports.
The beach is lightly sprinkled with people, most walking in the surf, holding hands, appreciating the beauty of just how beautiful it all is.
The coast is clear.
Once I sent postcards from St. Martin to a lot of people including many at work. Aside from the name and address I wrote, “I’ll be back when the coast is clear.”
I stole it from a Jimmy Buffet song that I love, “I come down to talk to me, when the coast is clear.”
Some people who received the cards thought that I was talking about the weather and that I must be stuck in bad storms which prevented me from returning until things cleared up.
Others thought that there was so much bad stuff going on that I had fled to St. Martin to get away from that I wasn’t going to return until things got better. You could take it either way.
At this point in my life I can take it both ways. The coast is definitely clear outside of my window and I think a big part of this day is going to include me in it. Feet in the surf, fingers dragging through the sand, cooler by my side.
Nor am I involved in that other stuff taking place on the mainland. Politicians are making decisions (mostly bad ones). Business men are making deals. Clergy are recovering from Sunday. Teachers are teaching or hiding from their students. The poor stand in line. That was my life for three decades but I am clear of it right now.
Last night I strolled over to Shirley’s sad little holy dock because she has taken pity on me. Sundays have always been special to me but over the past few years they lost their luster and have become difficult to endure. First Union Mission’s heavy agenda started showing up and kidnapping the day as I tried to manage so much diverse activity. I would sit and stare already consumed with what Monday would bring.
Then the person that I used to share Sundays with left and it became a reminder of lost. Love is something you fall into. Sometimes you have to make yourself get back up. Sundays became get-up day.
I shared this with Shirley several weeks ago and, dear friend that she is she’s made certain that I am preoccupied on Sunday evenings. Last night we just sat on the dock listening to the ticks and pops of mussels opening and closing. A sliver of a moon hung low in the sky. Stars were high and bright. We were talking about a lot of things as good friends do but we kept stopping to admire how beautiful everything is.
So I’ve finally come down to talk to me. I am spending most of my time doing that right now. There are others who dip in and out of the discussion but for the most part it is me facing me. It’s hard stuff to do.
But I’ll be back soon. I’ve got too much left to give so I’ll be back.
When the Coast is Clear.
