Field Note — Six Hours

At 10 a.m.:

I am sad. I am angry. I am tired. I am 168 pounds.

I have been outside in the August humidity, moving tired plants into the shade, pulling weeds, stacking pots, picking the last few tomatoes. I come inside, take off my clothes, and see a body I don't particularly want to see.

Old hurts arrive.

People I lost. People who left. People who hurt me. People I wish had simply left me alone. I feel older. I feel heavy. I feel the passing of time.

The whole world looks a little dimmer through it.

But there is a beach to go to.

So I put on the moss-green swimsuit. Cream lace pants. Lace sweater. Gold earrings. Big hat. Sparkly slides.

And I go.

Coquina Beach with Dylan. Sun and sand and Atlantic water.

Then groceries. Lunch for the kids. Home.

Dylan wants to go swimming again, this time in the sound at Heritage Point.

Okay. I’m game.

We get on our bikes.

And somewhere in those hours, without any grand intervention, the day changes.

We ride. We swim. We play.

Both wonderful kids are treated. I love them so. The sun is warm. The water sparkles.

I come home and have a coffee. I make fajitas and Spanish rice. The back porch, which this morning was cluttered with plants and pots, is sparkling after the husband’s work. We are a good team. The result, a sparking back porch.

Thank you for the sparkles, I tell him. Moving us close to the beaches, one in our neighborhood, one just over a bridge, and then the porch, a place we enjoy so much.

Thank you for the sparkling beaches and the sparkling porch.

Then a shower.

Clean clothes.

The fan.

Cool air on clean skin.

And now it is 4 p.m.

The beaches sparkle. The porch sparkles. My children are happy. The husband and I built a good day in our different ways. Dinner is made. I'm clean and cool under the fan.

Nothing important about my circumstances changed between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m.

I am still 51.

I am still 168 pounds. Or 166 now after sweating I suppose.

The people who are gone are still gone.

What happened still happened and what they did to me still hurts.

Menopause is still ringing its bell buoy somewhere offshore.

But I am not standing in the same wave.

That's worth remembering.

A terrible hour does not necessarily mean a terrible day.

Sadness can be real without being permanent.

Anger can come roaring through without getting the rest of the afternoon.

Sometimes I don't have to fix anything.

Sometimes I can put on my swimsuit and go to the beach.

Six hours.

Same woman.

Same body.

Same life.

Completely different view.

At 10 a.m., life hurt.

At 4 p.m., life so good.