We are in this place, The Dean and I, that I love. This place that holds so much meaning for our family, both people gone and still here.
There has been a book idea in my mind for awhile – years, actually – but it hasn’t quite crystallized. Maybe it never will, or maybe it just needs time to marinate a little more.
So I sit here this morning in the most comfortable writing chair imaginable, following a morning thunderstorm that rocked the house and these few blocks of beach town that time seems to have forgotten, listening to the beep-beep-beep of the trucks that worked through the night on the beach replenishment project a block away.
And a different idea has been born, completely different from what I had thought.
Through my work, I am participating in a program with a local foundation. We’re working individually with a career coach, and one of my summer goals is to carve out some time to write. Which I do, through the blog, but she means something else, something bigger than a blog post. (Not like there’s anything wrong with a blog post, nor do I have any intents to give up the blog … oh, no, no, no. Can’t get rid of me that fast.)
I have an hour or two before the masses arrive, kids, in-laws, The Dean returning from a morning alone on the beach. And I’m thinking, how does one begin a new story, I wonder? At what point do you start?
Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way or thataway, as I wrote on a friend’s blog a few moments ago. Maybe there isn’t one right, true way.
Maybe it is about starting wherever, whenever, about discovering the journey to come.