Joy

Reid State Park

For the first time ever, I consulted the Farmer’s Almanac. I'm just tired of the rain. For the past week, I've been standing by my window like a Victorian era ghost, staring out at the world as rain drops blurred the landscape between the street lights. Last week, I emptied the leftover soil from my garden pots and stacked them in a corner on my balcony.

I give up.

There will be no garden this year.

This makes me sadder than I anticipated. I don't particularly enjoy gardening, but affordable, quality produce has been increasingly difficult for me to find. There is a certain peace that comes with a homegrown tomato. I know it will bring me nourishment and balance with no fear of pesticides or mold.

According to the Farmer's Almanac, this summer's rainfall will be average. I can't let go of the anxiety though. In general, Maine's summers have been uncharacteristically wet. I didn't realize how much pressure I had put on the sun this summer.

But overall, the weather has been improving. As new leaves emerge from their buds, I too emerge from my home. The world is more inviting without icy steps or biting breezes. The ocean beckons me, and I am urged to sit before it, letting the sand fill my shoes and the salty air my lungs. 

A few years ago, I would hop in my car and just drive. I would visit stores, walking trails, parks, and beaches just because I could. Because I needed to get out of the box I was living in.

As I did, I was trying an experiment I first learned about from following Elyse Myers. She took a picture of every time she was happy. Nothing special. Not a selfie of candid laughter or a Polaroid worth hanging on the wall. Just a snapshot. A cup of coffee. A show playing on the TV. An animal curled up in a lap. My experiment did not last long, but I did notice one thing: most of my snapshots were of the parking lot outside my apartment.

There are many days I stand by my window, yearning for the rain to stop. I beg for sunlight and the parting of the clouds to clear my view of the world and to remind me how beautiful it is. 

Every now and again I remember those pictures.

I drove to Reid State Park for the first time a couple weeks ago when the sun was still out. I sat by the waves then walked for a bit until the sand snuck into my sneakers. Towards the end of my trekking, I discovered a swinging bench. A lifetime of rocking in a hammock and of furiously pumping my legs on a playground swing set demanded me to take a seat.

I sat swinging for maybe forty minutes. I had this little corner of the coast all to myself. Each rocking motion loosened the grip of worldly grief that has been clinging to me lately. It doesn't take long for it to weasel its way back, but just getting outside—just seeing the ocean—that helps. 

I took a picture before I left. The swing, the water, the sunshine. It is inadequate in its representation: the joy, the peace, and the promise that those feelings will wait for me to experience them another day.