Strung between three thorny salmonberry stalks was a bird’s nest. A lime green cotton candy swirl mixed with a witch’s hair-looking kind. On my walk, I bent one of the stalks and peered inside. Nothing.
The back of my head, although not green, is also a gnarled nest. From too much stocking cap wearing. Though the pointy wide-mouth comb stuck in every knot and pulling it free felt like a bicep gym workout, that it’s missing means I’m on the path to dreadlocks land.
I’ve never had dreadlocks. Well, not really. In high school, our summer fastpitch team do’ed up pinky-finger-sized braids all over our heads for a weekend tournament. After spending hours on dirt ball fields under the unrelenting 100+ degree Yakima cloud-free sky the freeways of open skin, once white, sizzled and fried like too-hot skillet eggs. Leaving the skin scabbing and peeling in the coming days, worse than a bad case of psoriasis.
Knowing our casual morning would be less, I organized the rake, lawn mower, and paint in the shed and coiled up the hose. I’d have preferred to leave it strewn about, but I’m motivated to get on the road by 9:30 am to make an eggs benedict brunch at my parents by noon.
The mistaken weatherman’s cloudy forecast, meant another day soaking in the sun. A 10-minute drive north to Roosevelt Beach was the destination. It’s my favorite beach for its sheer orange cliffs and extra-large chirping eagles that launch off evergreens onto wind currents, looking like kites escaped from their strings.
The tide’s turned, in a matter of speaking. When the sun vanished, and ocean winds did what they do, a ten-degree swing came at us. My savior was a heavyweight canvas sleeping bag but holding my phone to read meant my hand was exposed. Which was enough for me to say to Dave, “This is pretty miserable.”
Once forging the creek and playing on its bank, Evelyn and her two “Can I play with you?” beach friends also changed with the weather. And Evelyn never asks to go home. Now that’s an idea, a parent weather-changer device.
I’m writing in my book again. Has it been a year since last I wrote? Returning to it, I notice the descriptors I’m adding, the metaphors, and the reflective questions. It’s like a whole new dimension is being put to the page, and I’m excited about it. Will this be a project I forever play with on my own, or will I ever it share? On second thought, how about I share…
Chapter 1:
“Each and every one of us plays a completely unique role in the main act of life. The bumblebee pollinates the flowers, the judge decides morality, and you struggle to find who you are.”
Me: I can’t escape it. I have to go. To run away from my life, and never look back.
Therapist: In listening to you, it sounds like something is terribly wrong. What would leaving solve? Me: The brokenness and failed ball that is steadily growing inside, is blocking out any hope or next steps.
Therapist: What are you thinking of doing?
Me: I’d pack my car with the basics, quit my job at the casino, rent my house out, and go.
Therapist: Tell me more.
Me: I’d explore and wake up with the sunrise, it’d be heaven. Seeing Mount Rushmore, sitting on a park bench, going for a swim. Doing whatever I wanted.
Therapist: Escaping like this, what worries you the most?
Me: That I won’t know who I am when it’s all said and done. Or that I’ll become somebody else entirely. Or go crazy. Like, turn into one of those mumbling shuffling people in a psych ward, locked away in their own mind.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 