May 16, 2020. I have to write. I write for therapy and clarity. Sometimes I don’t know what I think (or feel) until I write it down. I’ve been unable to write since retiring young, five years ago. Something inside was stuck in psychological mud. The mud-clog is easing now as I sit on the water’s edge, hearing vigorous water-lapping. The front hitch of this tiny camper sits just six inches from the water’s edge—closer than last year due to erosion. We put new windows into this well-used little structure last year, which seemed a bit silly since its thin walls are compromised and the linoleum floor is cracking. But oh, how I love the view through these windows! And the sounds!
The front window faces east across the bay, and it seems the water would enter if the camper if it sank a foot. The side windows face south and north. Looking south, I see what we call “our island,” since it becomes that at high-tide when water sloshes over the little sand bar. A small stand of tired and bent cedars clings to what remains of soil there.
I watch the water lap into what we call “our marina,” the opening of which reaches six feet wide at high tide and only a foot wide at low tide. It’s just wide enough to bring in a rowboat or kayak or paddle board.
This little camper served as a hunting blind in its most recent life and its exterior is painted in camouflage. This is fine with me, as it will look rough in any case, no matter what its color! This way, it blends well into the woodsy background. Now it is my “studio,” so camouflage is again appropriate since I don’t want anyone to see me here. 😉
The point is, though…I will see myself more clearly.
I write for clarity. I write for fun. I write for me.