All at Sea

We have great personal news from the homestead.

As if summer alone couldn’t get any better, it looks like next summer - if we’re all still alive and everything is well - will be. My husband and I have upgraded to a new boat (really a used one) -  a 2004, 28-foot Grady-White with bedroom, shower, toilet, and kitchen. We also scored a boat slip in beautiful downtown Mystic for the 2019 season.

This boat was lovingly cared for and looks and feels practically new. And since we bought it in November, which is the absolute end of the season when boat sellers are willing to bend on their rates, we got it at a good price. It glided easily through inspection and sea trial last week, and last Sunday, we took it out on its first ride. We traveled from Mystic to Block Island, R.I., then back to Mystic for dinner. It was a beautiful day.

This is probably much more thrilling for my husband and myself than it is for you. For the few things he and I disagree on, there’s one thing we never argue about: we both feel completely alive when we’re on or near the ocean, and summer is magic no matter where we are when the ocean is nearby.

This is no surprise: the ocean’s movement mimics our own heart rhythms, ebbing and flowing, expanding and receding, over and over, under the great forces of gravity. We are certainly creatures of water, made almost entirely of air and water, needing water daily, always seeking water. Water has intellect, forming itself into molecular hexagonal rings when cold, then releasing the bond under temperature changes. The ocean is home to most life on Mother Earth. It’s rhythmic and blue and briny, and deep and dark and mysterious, and sometimes frightening. The smell of salt water is heady, calling to our true selves. Sun reflects off water, touches the skin, and fortifies our bodies. With few exceptions, come summer, humans flock to the oceans.

Now, our little family has a floating home on the water where we can spend weekends surrounded by the powerful and soothing energy of the ocean. I feel blessed and incredibly grateful.

A few days ago, I learned that Thich Nhat Hanh has left Plum Village and returned to his root monastery in Vietnam to live out the rest of his life. Thay, as he is called, is 92 and four years post-brain hemorrhage, a massive stroke that left him without the ability to speak or move freely. Still, he's teaching and edifying the world as he always has. It's easy to see his body is tiring. Nhat Hanh is the greatest peace activist of our time, and possibly any time. I've benefited from his profound teachings for years, and love his gentle spirit. I've been thinking about him in earnest for days now.

At the homestead, we have amaryllis bulbs stirring, paperwhites putting out long, slender scapes, hyacinth bulbs chilling in the fridge, and herbs doing their best to adjust to the indoors. Rosemary is not looking great, but I won’t give up until it tells me to. I’m reading Charles Eisenstein, making kombucha, writing, drinking an extraordinary amount of hot tea, and developing an obsession with Kenyan and Ethiopian coffees. We’re planning a quiet holiday. My husband is busy forecasting next summer on the water. Everything is peaceful. I’m full of thankfulness.

Barbie xo