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On June 16, 1962 my parents were married. I tried to let the day go by without saying aloud that it was their anniversary. I thought of them with love. I tried to honor their memory silently. I guess I managed to get through the day without mentioning it, but I am not sure why I felt that need. Sometimes it doesn’t feel “right” that I should still be sad about losing my parents. But if have learned anything at all, grief never goes away, so the best way to handle it, is to welcome it when it shows up. Slamming the door in its face, doesn’t work. Grief is like a mouse–it slips through the cracks and skirts around the edges, both elusive and so damn there.

People keep asking me if I have finished painting the levee and the answer is no. I got a job. And it’s partly because of the levee that I am working again.

One day after being on the river, I passed the Leonardo DaVinci Museum of North America and I thought–what’s that? Then that very night I saw job postings for the museum and took that as I sign.

Yes. I am retired, but I always planned on finding a job at some point. It’s no secret that I left teaching pretty beat up. I promised myself that whatever I did next would be creative and fill me with infinite joy. And if doesn’t, well, I will dip out.

I don’t know yet if the job will bring me infinite joy. There are a few things I don’t love. One is stupid, but I hate being told what to wear. I think it’s my inner Catholic school uniform girl rebel that awakens whenever a polo dares to cross my path. The first couple of days, I wore a Renaissance costume. Honestly, I preferred that. It was more comfortable and it made me feel more like a person entering the realm of DaVinci’s lair. It also reminded me of Ren Fest and all the great summer days I have had there. It even kind of made me think about buying a pattern and making my own dress. I haven’t sewn anything in YEARS.

The other part of the job, I am not super crazy about is the drive. I know Pueblo isn’t really that far and I enjoy the amazing sky views and listening to the radio, but gas is pricey and there is a lot of road construction. I have thought about moving, but there is no ocean in Pueblo and if I am going to go to all the trouble of relocating there better be a beach in that plan!

That said, the museum is fabulous. It boasts a library of a complete collection of DaVinci’s writings. It literally will draw scholars from all over the world. Artisans of Florence created the exhibits and were on hand at the museum to give lessons about the pieces. Fabulous local artists created the murals in the museum. And there is an amazing STEAM room and inventors’ lab. I have been to a lot of museums in the US, a lot, and this museum ranks high on the best interactive museum list. It truly makes innovation, creativity, and DaVinci come alive.

I watched a twenty- something couple have a date in the museum. They were holding hands when they came into the inventors’ lab and did every activity– colored birds, constructed flapping wings, built wiggle-bots, wrote messages to each other with mirror writing, shot off straw rockets, played in the sand table and more. I watched them say “I Love You,” in the shadow room with shadows they made on the wall. Maybe they will get married and spend the next fifty or sixty years holding hands through all the seasons of love. It actually made me smile, and think of my parents. And filled me with hope.

A lot of kids come into the lab. I am enjoying them–it’s like having only the best part of teaching. Their eyes get big with wonder and they ask questions and are excited to try the activities. My favorites though are the older people. I watched two women, older than me, play with the gear panel for a solid thirty minutes, laughing and having a good time. Some people don’t come into the inventor’s lab because they think it’s for kids, but it’s not. It’s for everyone and there is going to be something that invites, inspires, ignites, no matter what age. So, yeah, being in this space–infinite joy.

I am also super impressed with the people who created this museum. They are examples of passion and hard work coming together to bring a dream alive. The museum they built is a gift both for the community and the world. It’s the kind of place that is unforgettable and it’s exciting to witness the beginning and get to be a small part of its history.

So. I will finish the painting on the levee, and I have a stained glass job in progress, and I am writing. And now there are museum patrons to greet and engage.

Every day I heal a little more from the losses life has handed me. Not because the grief is gone, but because it has found a place to live alongside joy.

Maybe that’s what Leonardo understood all along—that curiosity is its own kind of hope. That making something with your hands is an act of faith in tomorrow. That imagination isn’t an escape from life, but a way back into it.

So Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad. Here’s to imagination, discovery and the pursuit of infinite joy.

A lot of people don’t know that when I came back to Canon City, I joined the school district as the first middle school GATE teacher—the gifted program. It was a half-time position at that point, and it was all very wide open and flexible. Sometimes I just felt like I was making it up as I went.

One of the things that developed out of that program was a summer program that offered short, intense learning experiences for kids. I haven’t taught SPLASH every summer, but I have done a lot of classes. One of my classes is Animals in Art—a tour of art projects inspired by art and animals from around the world. When I retired, I decided to keep teaching SPLASH, so I returned to the classroom last week.

It’s no secret that I felt pretty beat up when I left the classroom five months ago. So much so that I couldn’t even go back to have lunch with my friends. I’d see kids in the grocery store or in a restaurant and get anxiety. But I was looking forward to SPLASH. First off, it’s the best of teaching—small classes with kids who want to be there. I love teaching different art mediums and just turning kids loose to create. And even though I have taught the class many times, we almost always do projects I haven’t tried before.

I couldn’t have had a better class. Ten kids, all happy, creative, and hardworking. Most of them like to draw, and they all actually listen when I tell them about an artist, a history, or a process. They help each other and are kind. And their work has turned out fantastic.

The best thing about this experience is that I can tell I am a new person—more grounded and happier. I don’t want to return to the classroom, but I am ready for creative opportunities that are starting to emerge.

I got a job. I am working part time at the brand new Leonardo DaVinci Museum in Pueblo, Colorado. I will be in the STEAM Center, helping visitors engage with fantastic displays that inspire imagination and creativity.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I am moving toward something instead of away from something. Teaching SPLASH reminded me of what I loved about education in the first place, and this new opportunity feels like a natural next step. I may have closed one chapter, but I’m discovering that there are still plenty of ways to teach, create, and connect with people. That feels like a pretty good place to begin again.

When my son was twelve, he decided he was going to start training for the cross country team. Every morning, he’d get up early, leash up our young blue heeler/lab dog, and head out to the hills behind our house. I’d always say, “Watch out for mountain lions,” and he’d say something like, “I am a Leo, so lion-proof.”

Running was his obsession. He read books, kept a training journal, ran everywhere. He did join the cross country team and made varsity his freshman year.

I don’t know when the voices came. I sometimes wonder if running kept them at bay. Because when Shayne stopped running, some of his behavior changed. I didn’t know schizophrenia was even a possibility, so I wasn’t looking for it.

The voices have taken so much from my son, from me, from our whole family. One piece of advice I was given early on was to read as much as I could and learn about his illness. I did, though I have to say the reading was discouraging. Even though only about one percent of the population has schizophrenia, about ten percent die by suicide. The drugs only work for about eighty percent of people and often come with intense side effects. Success stories are few, and long roads of addiction, jail, and violence are not uncommon.

At first, when I started reading, I was hopeful that maybe we could have a different story. But as our journey continued, and we lived through one dark stretch after another, I wasn’t sure there was hope.

Maybe running was an early clue—fixation becoming obsession. At least it seemed healthy then. Better than being consumed by some unknown creature stealing his soul, or becoming convinced Elon Musk was coming for dinner.

The meds don’t take the voices away; sleeping does. He self-medicates to sleep. I have watched every drug take its toll on his body. The pharmaceuticals have aged his kidneys. The THC has given him the cough of an old man. The beer has left him with a round belly. Watching someone live addicted is its own kind of hell. Many times, I have felt powerless. Watching my son slowly kill himself in front of me is torturous.

Recently, he said he wanted to quit drinking. I didn’t react much. Words are cheap.

But then I saw him carrying one of his old running books up from the basement. He leashed up Stormi. Apparently pit bulls are not natural runners, because he came back carrying her, saying she refused to jog after three minutes. So I sat on the porch with her and watched him jog away.

He doesn’t move with his old easy gait, but he is out there, doing it.

Maybe he will stop after a few weeks. But maybe not. Running was his high for a long time, and I’m hoping it will be again. Maybe it’s the one thing that can save him from himself.

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A couple of weeks ago at the school district retirement dinner, one of the board members gave speeches about each of the retirees and handed out gifts with fun but special meaning. I got a jar of Skittles and a metal sign that outlines a move to the beach, because I always say I want to live near the beach. One of my friends recently asked me what I am waiting for.

A few things:

Is there a beach I can afford?

What about my house in Colorado?

Will Shayne be okay?

I have some obligations:
a. Finish the painting on the levee.
b. Update the mural at the Baptist church.
c. Finish my memoir.

I have been concentrating on my obligations first. I am writing three hours a day. That seems like a lot, and I should be able to finish the project. But a lot of that time is spent trying to figure out how to write a section of my life—like college—in a paragraph or a page. I haven’t started the church yet, because I have used my two ideas and I only like painting animals, not people, and there are way more people than animals in the Bible. That leaves the levee.

A few years ago, I blogged about my experiences painting a mural above the Arkansas River in Pueblo. I was so excited to participate in the Pueblo Levee project. I felt like painting a giant mural suspended on ropes would give me mad street cred as a muralist. During that time, though, my son had one of his worst psychotic breaks and was missing for days. Painting on the wall became how I coped. Every time Shayne disappeared, I wondered if I would ever see him again. That time I really did think he might be dead, and I wondered if that would be a relief for him. Living with the voices screaming in his brain is pretty horrible. Then I had all the mom guilt for even thinking those thoughts. So I would go down on the wall and paint my fish and try not to think or feel.

When the project was over, I just sat at the edge of the river and looked down at my work. It felt anticlimactic. I had done this big thing and I wasn’t even really sure that it mattered.

I went on with my life. Shayne was found and we started our dance of him trying a new medicine and me pretending that he was doing better until the next episode. I had some ideas about painting on the levee again, but I also thought it might be a one and done for me. It was expensive, the drive was a lot, and honestly, my last years in the classroom took such a toll on my emotional well-being that I was just mostly surviving. I didn’t have the creative energy for much beyond occasional humorous quips on social media.

Last year, though, I decided that maybe leaning into my creativity could help me get through the hard stuff, and I agreed to do another mural. I did a watercolor sketch of horses thundering in the sunset. In my mind, it represented power and freedom. I got the paint, but when I went to the levee, I couldn’t step down on the wall. Fear froze me. I forgot how the equipment worked. Panic set in. Three times I tried. All the memories of Shayne lost came flooding back. All the feelings I hadn’t let myself feel came rushing back. I didn’t want to be on the river or remember any of it, and I didn’t want to paint the mural anymore.

However, part of me did want to paint. I wanted my horses up there. I wanted the mural to live somewhere. I didn’t want to walk away and regret not painting it for the rest of my life.

I met another artist working on a mural. She is from Oregon and only here for another week, but she has made painting a kind of community and helps other people. I always work alone and I hate asking for help, but I also knew that getting back on the ropes was something I wasn’t going to be able to do without an intervention.

She walked me through it. I felt the fear on my first trip down, but then I relaxed enough to be able to go up and down and side to side, and then I painted a little. Then I painted longer, and now I feel ready to start my painting.

To be honest, I don’t know where the beach fits in my future. I just know the ocean calls to me. I don’t know about Shayne or my house. I don’t feel like my list is an excuse or postponement. The list feels like finishing what I started.

All I know is I got on the wall again. Fear isn’t controlling me. The horses are going to run on the levee, and then I will be ready for whatever comes next.

I spent a good portion of my late thirties and early forties riding the hell out of my bike. I had the fancy clothes, clip shoes, aerodynamic handlebars, speedometers, and little black pouches stuffed with Allen wrenches and an extra tube. Sometimes I rode with friends. Mostly I rode alone.

I started riding because I wanted to lose weight. I abhor talking about weight. I once heard that more women my age struggle with eating disorders — diagnosed or not — than breast cancer. But anyway, my son told me the best way to lose weight was to find an exercise I loved as a kid. I chose biking because it seemed more realistic than roller skating.

I always had this idea of riding somewhere epic. The Oregon coast. Something cinematic.

I rode to Alamosa once. It was hard, but it wasn’t the mountain pass that nearly broke me — it was the long, straight gunbarrel highway. Mountains at least give you a rest. On flat roads, if you stop pedaling, you stop.

I drank enough water, but I let myself get hungry. By the end I felt weak and sick. When I finally reached Alamosa, I peeled off my shorts and found saddle blisters despite all the expensive gear. Even with sunscreen, I felt baked alive. The next morning I woke with a fever and caught a ride home.

So much for epic aspirations.

Then I was attacked on a ride.

It was early evening on the riverwalk in spring. A young man walked toward me, dressed all in black with a winter beanie pulled low. Something felt wrong immediately — wrong for the season, wrong for the trail.

As I passed him, he lunged. He grabbed my handlebars and wrenched me to a stop. I yelled — I think I yelled — and he spit in my face, hissing like a wildcat and calling me something filthy. Fortunately other walkers rounded the bend, I shouted again and he disappeared into the trees.

The fear came afterward. My hands shook all the way home.

After that, the trail didn’t quite feel like mine anymore.

My riding partners moved away. I stopped riding every day, then stopped riding regularly, and eventually I stopped riding at all.

During the pandemic I bought a cross bike for fifty dollars on Facebook Marketplace. I met the seller at a Sinclair station in Denver. She looked skinny and homeless-y and walked the bike toward us. My son raised his eyebrows and said, “This is how drug deals go down. That bike is probably stolen.”

Maybe. But I love that bike.

It’s faster than a mountain bike but sturdier than a road bike. I started riding again a little, mostly with my sister-in-law when she visited from overseas each summer. She’s strong and serious about cycling. After riding her state-of-the-art bike, I decided I needed a new road bike too.

Here’s the absolute truth about me: even if I were a millionaire, I would never feel good paying full price for something I could get on sale.

So I waited for a pandemic bike — one of those expensive purchases abandoned by optimistic urban cyclists. Eventually I found one in a bougie Denver neighborhood. I bought a nearly new road bike for a tenth of its retail price.

It was so fancy that I brought it inside the house instead of leaving it in the garage.

I rode it twice.

The idea of doing something epic never really left me. I imagine riding across the country and writing a blog every night about the day’s miles. I also imagine moving to Philadelphia and winning the lottery.

I have done none of those things.

Yesterday, though, I put on my biking clothes. I filled the tires. I rode about fifteen miles. Mostly flat miles, but still.

And somewhere along the ride I realized maybe epic doesn’t mean crossing a continent. Maybe epic is just getting back on the bike after everything that made you stop.

I wonder how many times life will offer me that lesson before it finally sinks in.

People keep asking me how retirement is treating me, and the easy answer is—great. But the truth is more complicated.
I left the classroom four months ago, yet it feels like a lifetime ago. Teaching is so distant in my mind that I wonder if I have dissociated from the experience, like a trauma I just can’t think about. I feel as if I am emerging from a giant battle, struggling to remove the armor. Each day a little piece comes off. I am lighter and a little more free, but the sensation is so unfamiliar that I don’t always trust it or know what to call it.

Every day I wake up and lean into this new life, taking a few tentative steps while my creative soul is completely unleashed and ready to run. So I’ve been letting that part of me have free rein.

I started a stained glass project. I have fused glass, worked with a torch, and done mosaics, but stained glass is a new art for me. Still, I have complete confidence in my ability to do anything artistic. So I planned an eighteen by twenty four design of a horse, chose my colors, and started cutting glass.

The process became mesmerizing for me. Cutting, grinding, designing my own puzzle pieces. When a piece didn’t come out right, I’d try again. I learned about tools that I didn’t know existed-like a table top foiler. And I cut myself and stepped on glass and realized that stained glass is incredibly messy and should be done in a workshop or a studio and maybe not in the dining room. When I was finally ready to solder, I realized I needed some expert advice. Fortunately, I knew the perfect person.

When I began tacking the glass together and small beads of silver formed along the seams, I worried I might ruin hours of labor. My friend assured me it would come together.

My friend is Beki Javernick, the owner of Driftwood and Clay. I met her a number of years ago and I had been aware of her talent, but didn’t realize what a great teacher she is. She was patient and helpful and we laughed at my complete unorthodox way of tackling a giant project. Mostly, she just gave me the space to do my thing. It was exactly what I needed…an eclectic atmosphere of music, art, and a respect of creativity in all its forms.

As I drew lines of liquid silver, I wondered how I had lived so long inside systems that never quite fit me. My art went from glass shapes to a unified flow of mane, head and neck of a majestic animal. I was sort of shocked to set down the patina brush and see this brilliant transformation.

Usually, when I finish a piece of art, I give it away for someone else to love. The joy for me is the process and the gift of sharing. But this time, I fell in love with the end product itself.

Piece by piece, I trusted the process—making mistakes, starting over, accepting guidance without feeling diminished. I surrendered to the work and trusted my intuition. My creative self has been waiting patiently for space and light.

I might be still setting the armor down. It’s not easy because it took half a life to put it on. But I am determined to get it all off and step into freedom. So that’s what retirement has been for me–not really an ending or a rest, but a slow return to myself. And that is great.

Soon the horse will be in a window and sunlight will pass through it. Maybe that’s the real work of this season: learning how to stand still long enough for the light to find its way through me too.

It’s going on eleven years since my parents were killed. Most nights my dad comes to me in dreams.  He doesn’t really do much, just shows up and hangs around doing whatever I am doing in the dream.  I don’t dream about my mom much, but when I do she is always at the beach.  And she always seems happy. 

At first that didn’t make any sense to me.  My mother was raised on the shores of Northern Ireland and had almost died in a riptide as a child. She had a fear of the water and bathed in inches of water.  She was terrified of the ocean. So why is she always near the ocean in my dreams?

In real life, I only saw my mother at the ocean once. It was in Mexico and I’m not sure how old I was when we went there on a family trip. In the photos I was still a head taller than my brother and had a little girl body in my bathing suit.  

It was my first trip to the ocean. I swam out to the waves that would break over my body. The first time I was caught by a wave I felt like I had gotten caught in the spin cycle of a washing machine of epic proportions.  I was drowning, but fully aware of my coming demise.  I remember saying goodbye to my dog, my brothers, my parents, and my grandpa. Then the wave was gone and I was lying waterlogged in inches of sea foam and hard-packed sand.  I struggled up and went and sat on my towel by my mother.  She was reading a magazine.  I thought about telling her that I almost drown, but figured she wouldn’t let me back in the water, so instead I took a sip of my Pepsi and ran to the water’s edge to tell Kevin.  He had embraced being swept up in the waves and said it was body surfing and he showed me to turn to face the beach and then to paddle like mad to stay on top.  He was younger, but never had any fear.  

Our hotel in Acapulco had a swimming pool with a cascading waterfall at the deep end.  My brother came up with the idea of climbing to the top of it and diving off.  He coaxed me to the top to take my own plunge.  He even got my father to do it.  And talked my mom to come into the shallow water and we held her hands and let her use our swim floats.  She was shaking, but she sat on the steps with the water up her knees and splashed water over her arms and neck.  Kevin and I thought we had won a prize getting our mom in the water.  

That vacation in Mexico was my best childhood memory.  Dad used his Spanish to find us the best food and got us into places tourists didn’t go. Mom wasn’t cooking or cleaning or trying to get me to be a girly, girl.  She didn’t let her fear stop us from experiencing the seashore, or the epic pool. My brother was beside me, making me a little braver and pulling me into his adventures. That’s when I fell in love with the exact place where the sky meets the ocean. 

I realize that now when I see my dreams of my parents at the beach it is for my comfort, not theirs.  I see my dad deep sea fishing and my mom relaxing in the sun with the horizon before them, and I am at peace.

Maybe that’s what love does after it has nowhere left to go—it rearranges itself into something you can visit. Not as it was, with all its edges and fears and unfinished conversations, but as something wider, softer. A place where the things that frightened us no longer have power.

My mother, who once feared the ocean, sits easily beside it now. Not because she changed, but because I needed her to. Because somewhere in me, I am still that child coming up for air, still wanting to turn and say, Did you see that? Am I going to be okay?

And in these dreams, the answer is always yes.

She doesn’t have to speak it. It’s there in the way she faces the water without flinching, in the way the light rests on her shoulders, in the quiet permission to come closer to the edge of things.

Today, she would have been ninety-five.

I imagine her there—on that endless shore where the sky meets the ocean—unafraid, unhurried, and whole. And I understand now that the gift she gave me wasn’t just that one perfect trip, or even the courage to wade in. It was something steadier: the ability to return, again and again, to a place where love outlasts fear.

So I meet her there.

And for a little while, I am not missing her.

Philadelphia is one of my favorite cities to visit. Every place I travel has energy–Alaska is majestic–Oregon is wild–the Philippines are generous–and Philadelphia is vibrant. It is a city of history and art. People talk fast and loud and offer up opinions unsolicited. Maybe it seems brusque and busy, maybe a little dangerous and dirty, but Philadelphia makes me feel alive and awake.

Musical theater took me to Philadelphia on this trip. First off, I am not a musical theater freak, but I have a healthy appreciation born from my experiences in high school. I never performed, but I spent a lot of time backstage painting sets and helping with the design elements. In fact, I used to dream that one day I’d move to Broadway and paint sets. So when a friend of mine from high school co-wrote the musical “Starstruck,” there was no question about flying out for the world premiere in New Hope, PA.

My friend, Mary Ann Stratton wrote “Starstruck” with a Tony award winning actress, Beth Malone. One of the Indigo Girls, Emily Saliers wrote the music. While the musical has only been on stage for about two weeks, it has already made a huge splash in the New York Times. All of this is impressive, but I am not surprised. I have known Mary Ann since I was four years old, and she has big energy and I have always believed that she could make anything happen.

When we were in high school, she’d pull up in my driveway in her ghetto fabulous Pinto and we’d set off for a movie or fries at McDonald’s and a whole adventure would unfold that was always unexpected and usually hilarious and unbelievable at the same time. Mary Ann carried drama with her the same way others bring snacks or sunglasses. Through all those adventures, we formed a bond that years and miles never erased. Seeing her name up on the building marquee made me feel so proud. I know how long this road has been for her and it is an honor to see her dazzle in the light.

Even more exciting than the musical to me was just being able to hang out in my favorite city with my friend. In a typical Mary Ann and Michelle fashion, it got off to a weird start. She put in the address to pick me up without a city and Google Maps took her to New Jersey, then back over the bridge and through the heart of the city out to the suburbs before we connected. While I was waiting, I left my wallet in a flowerpot and had to backtrack to get it. We just laughed because this is exactly how we roll when we are together. We saw the Liberty Bell and the Love sign, checked out all the fun booths and food at Reading Terminal Station and marveled at the murals decorating the skyline. We talked the whole time, but never finished a conversation because we kept interrupting ourselves to ogle over what was right in front of us.

Hours after she dropped me off at the airport, it occurred to me that we might have been in a big city, celebrating big accomplishments, but we are the same two small town girls just spending time doing what we always have done–wandering around, talking over each other, laughing at our own chaos, and soaking up whatever happens to be in front of us.

Maybe that’s why Philadelphia feels so right to me. It’s a city that doesn’t try to smooth out its edges. It’s loud and messy and full of history, but also full of people chasing big, improbable dreams. Standing there looking at my friend’s name on a theater marquee, I realized that the distance between a small-town driveway and a city stage isn’t as impossible as it once seemed. Sometimes it’s just a long string of strange adventures, wrong turns, and good stories with the right people.

Blogging on the road is usually part of my travel plans. I was in Philadelphia in October and didn’t write about it, and I am in Philly again, and writing about New Jersey. I came this weekend to see my friend’s musical that she co-wrote. Another friend of mine from high school also lives out here, so it’s like a mini reunion, but I am squeezing in one or two solo road trips.

Just in case anyone is confused about geography, Philadelphia is an hour away from the beach. If I can get any chance to go to a beach, I am going. When I told the bus driver I was going to the beach, he gave me a look like I was crazy. It was cold, misty, rainy and there is still mounds of snow piled up from a recent storm. I did not care, the ocean is the ocean.

I rented a car and headed on the expressway toward the Jersey shore. Again, I found myself in this place of total nirvana–behind the wheel with the radio up is like church for me. A peace settles in and the possibilities seem as endless as the sky, except in Jersey, the fog creates a dense tunnel framed with pine trees–more of a misty portal than a wide open vista. The landscape doesn’t matter. It’s concentrating on the road ahead that sets me free.

There are lots of beach towns in New Jersey and they all have their own personality. I had my sights set on Asbury Park, because well, Bruce Springsteen. I pulled right up to the old building with the murals where the carousel was housed and I knew I had arrived.

Here is the great thing about being an all around the year beach lover. No crowds. When I stepped out of the car, I could hear the Atlantic. It was roaring. The tide was coming in and big waves were forming and breaking over dark, black rocks and had a moment of hesitation–the historic boardwalk, or the sand?

The ocean won and I headed down to the water. I walked for a couple of hours, just marveling at the waves and the sand and the rock. The tide was coming in, so each wave came in closer and higher. There was one brave surfer taking advantage of the high water and one photographer trying to capture the dolphins that were jumping far out in the gray. For the first time in a long time, I wished that I had a better camera with me.

On my return trip, I took in the Boardwalk. I always can imagine what beach places are like in the summer by their winter bones. Asbury Park isn’t completely hibernating. The music history keeps it drowsy, but not asleep. The Paramount auditorium is massive, ocean weathered, but gothic, impressive, echoing with grandeur and greatness. I saw the Stone Pony and the Wonder Bar and all the amazing murals. There was a band playing, even though the crowd was more like a smattering of dog walkers and locals out for a lark. I could feel the crowds around me though-it’s like spirit of people gathered to see the Doors and the Stones never really left.

I didn’t take the same route back to Philadelphia, instead I went through Atlantic City. I thought I might drop into a casino and play a dollar or two for mom’s luck. Instead, I just parked in the heart of the city and returned a phone call to one of my cousins. We’ve had a couple of deaths in our family and just because I am at the beach doesn’t mean my family isn’t in my heart.

I cannot deny the road is pulling me. There is something about the freedom and the ocean that fills my soul that nothing else ever has. I used to think my family anchored me to a place, but I am questioning that now.

Maybe my family isn’t an anchor at all.

Maybe they are more like a series of buoys, guiding me in and out of the currents.