Today my mind drifts back to a beach in South Portland, Maine.
I had gotten up early, so the beach was quiet when I arrived. I could only hear the waves, the sand shifting softly beneath my shoes, and the occasional seagull making its presence known.
When I had visited the beach the afternoon before, I had seen several sailboats anchored out in the harbor, gently bobbing from side to side. The fog was so thick now that none of the boats were visible anymore.
Introvert that I am, I took a moment to stand there, enjoying my solitude. The chilly air reached out to take both of my hands in its own; I squeezed once, gently, and then tucked my hands into my jacket’s pockets.
Then I began walking north, maneuvering around the thick piles of seaweed resting on the beach. I could smell them, mixing in with the ocean’s salty spray. Rocks began coming into view ahead of me, their rough surfaces worn smooth from years of contact with the water.
I could relate; I had arrived in Maine feeling pretty worn down myself. New York hadn’t been pulling its punches lately, and I was tired.
That day I spent at the beach, surrounded by fog and stillness, helped considerably. There’s something to be said for isolation.
Thanks for reading,
This post was written in response to The Daily Post’s photo challenge for this week.