Last summer when I had shingles, I drove out to the beach every day. I sat in the sand, I sat in my car, I napped, I read. There’s nothing written in my journal for those days; I accomplished nothing at work, or on the house; I didn’t see friends, or write, or exercise. In some ways it’s as if those days didn’t happen.
And yet there they are in my memory, dreamy, significant. I look back on them fondly and with gratitude.
I think I was a different person, before and since.
This afternoon I drove back out to the beach. I don’t have shingles, but I’m here sitting in the sand. I have a book. I may read it, or I may just be.