Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

I am homesick. Well not even homesick, but just yearning for some familiarities. I walked by the harbor and the sea air reminded me of the beach back home. Now, when I lived in New England, I refused to go to the beach, but for some reason I can’t stop thinking about the tangy sea air. That’s one thing I always loved about the coast. Some people think it smells too much of fish and salt, but there’s so much more attached to it than that. When I close my eyes and smell the sea air I think of a tiny beach shack where I used to get fried clams in the summer, of visiting the tidepools on school field trips, of the clotting sand between my toes. I miss the ability to go and experience a summer of reminiscence. I want to brave the extreme traffic near the fourth of July, walk barefoot across the scorching blacktop, eat overpriced, but delicious slices of pizza. I want, I want, I want. But I can’t. Not right now.

My friend just reminded me that transcendence can only be achieved once pleasure is accessed while experiencing suffering. I suppose the truth is evident in that statement. I mean, if all you ever knew was darkness, it would seem no different to you than if all you ever knew was light. There is nothing to compare it to, therefore the definition is undefinable.

I don’t want to transcend if it means suffering until I find pleasure. I just want to be. Right now. I wouldn’t complain about my sunburn or the cost of parking, I wouldn’t drag my feet and balk at the idea of driving the short distance to the beach. I would only think of the crashing of the waves that has that soothing lull I had previously only attributed to the hum of car engines. Maybe the adult me will fall peacefully asleep at the crest of the ocean like the child me did on car trips or even listening to the dull thrum of the vacuum cleaner.  I have fallen in love with the sea and the new experiences that drift in with the tides, but I fear that the grains of sand will just keep building up against me, pushing me farther from the water and the sound of the lapping waves.

If I could change myself to fit the mold of the dock I would. Docks are built to withstand the rising and lessening of the tides, compressing and expanding their boards with the pressure of the waves. They weather the storms and the gales, the foot traffic and the push carts without releasing forth more than a slight groan or creak. If I could just watch them everyday and somehow absorb their perseverance I would be as strong as the thick boards and as salty as the sea.