Moonlore - Publisher's Essay
Breathe, Inspire, Love, Live
"The Great Spirit is in all things; he is in the air we breathe"
~ Big Thunder (Bedagi) Wabanaki Algonquin
Dust from the basement archives still clung to me. Too far from home to change clothes, too many errands left to quit, the idea of comfort fled, especially amid the summer heat. I hate downtown, hate basements, hate being hot, dusty and tired. Why was I even in the city? None of the chores were mine. They all belonged to someone else. But they'd designated me for the tasks they didn't want to or couldn't fulfill.
I looked at the heat shimmering off the sidewalk as I struggled through the mass of pedestrians. Sweat trickled from my hairline, fogging my glasses, staining my cheeks. Smog stifled my lungs: hot, stale, it seared deeper with every breath. A long, concrete bank in front of the courthouse became a makeshift bench. As I sat sweating and panting, I thought of my options. They were few. Finish all the chores despite my discomfort or.....or....go home defeated? No. I couldn't do that. I was too efficient. Wasn't I? I didn't need to come back another day to face the congestion again. Did I? The answers didn't come easy. Temptation begged me to go home. But what for? There was only more work piled high in that house.
The only good thing about downtown Los Angeles is the freeway heading straight for the Pacific Ocean. Memories of the breaking tide, of sand crabs and just-as-sandy children won somewhere between the noisy buses belching pollution and the hilltop parking lot whose mechanized gate gobbled cash faster than I could rip it from my pocket. I rolled down the windows, opened the top, put the Beach Boys on, and spun up the on-ramp. The wind grabbed my hair, twisting it into exotic knots as I sailed toward freedom. I cautiously inhaled, lightly at first, then deeper. The scalding heat faded a bit more with every passing mile. The air began to feel wet and salty. I could breathe. I could breathe. Glorious deep breaths. Thirty minutes later, I was strolling toward the Santa Monica Pier.
There, just where the steps rise from the sand into the sunshine surrounding the carousel, there the bubble man greets every new arrival. His bubble machine sends rainbow orbs wafting across the boardwalk, drifting high above dancing children reaching toward the heavens, catching a down-draft just in time to burst upon the wood beneath their feet. How many years had he been here? Forever. Forever. The ocean breathes forever, washing the shore with its restless tide, mesmerizing children and adults alike. There - an eternity before - I learned to jump waves while my father shouted encouragement and my mother fretted. There, on the shore after dark with the damp breeze threatening the campfire, there I received the kiss - you know the one, the one from HIM - sweetly remembered all these years later.
Where did she go, that young girl? How did she become this harried woman, the one practiced in guilt and resenting the daily scurry of adult life? Where was she? I missed her. The thought made my heart hurt. I'd lost her somewhere between then and now. Carelessly, I'd cast her aside, eager to be grown-up without really knowing what that meant.
I didn't turn toward the sand, walking instead along the concrete path lined with tourist traps. It was hard work dodging the tanned skaters flying past, their hair flowing free, their youth flashing like iridescent banners. Where was I going? Hadn't I already walked enough? It didn't matter. Once again I was fleeing, this time running from the memories that nagged across the years.
She wouldn't leave though, that bright-eyed girl. She led me to a store she loved, one brimming with youth and zest. On impulse, I entered and did what I dread most: I bought a new bathing suit. At the last moment, as my mind groaned in dismay, I rebelled again and grabbed the largest, brightest, softest beach towel I'd ever seen. I plunked down cash and trembled. What was I doing? I had work to do. Nevertheless, I changed, ran under the pier and out into the waves.
I waded deeper, jumping just before each new tide crested. With each step, my heart lightened. Somewhere in the churning water, the lead weight of duty vanished. Youthfully buoyant once again, I rode the crashing waves, briefly, wonderfully, before they sucked me under, tossing me topsy-tervy before dumping me in a soggy, rumpled mess on the sandy shore.
Coughing and sputtering, I sat up, gasping, begging for air. The water gurgled around me, enjoying its joke. But I also heard something else. Was that my father laughing on the wind?
A stray bubble, a hardy soul, drifted off the pier and lit beside me. It sparkled and shone for a long moment, then burst when I touched it. This time, I laughed with the wind. No memory of chores remained. Only the lovely noise of a child's glee. Home. Delightful, happy, eternal home. How wonderful to be home.
By Loretta Kemsley
Publisher/President
Women Artists and Writers International
Writer, Editor and Editorial Coach
Loretta Kemsley's Personal Portfolio: Women's Writings
http://lores.lair.moondance.org/