Running Away

I've always been a bit of a runaway.  Each of my childhood homes was in the country, surrounded by rolling yards of soft grass, farmland, and in the distance, welcoming, serene woods.  This was my refuge.  When life's demands were too much I ran away...to the woods.  I would walk in just far enough to feel alone.  Far enough to smell the scents of brown earth, fresh grass, or crisp pungent autumn leaves.  Far enough to be surrounded by the soft sounds of small animals scurrying, leaves crunching underfoot, or my favorite of all, a breeze rustling through the entire canopy of leaves just above my head.  I would find a stump or a moss carpeted log to sit on, always with my back to the world and the troubles I'd left behind.  Sometimes I'd write... a letter, a poem, or a journal entry.  Sometimes I would scream my frustrations at the wind, letting it blow the fears and anger away on that gentle, cleansing current through the leaves.  Sometimes I would spin around, arms outsretched, face lifted to the sun. Then I would let the breeze dry the tears on my cheeks, and I would feel free, secure, strong enough to return.

I grew up and moved on, to college dorms and small apartments shared with friends, then a small starter home in the suburbs.  I found woods to run away to still, parks set amid the city noise and  traffic. In these parks I expanded my world; once studying the bible on a blanket in the  sunshine until I was sunburnt...another time meeting an 84 year old woman on the walking trail.  I complained because it had rained on our afternoon...she uttered words I've never forgotten:  "even a rainy day is a blessed day when you are my age." 

It was my husband who introduced me to the place that has become my ultimate refuge...the seashore.  Here I could once again sit with my back to the world...lose myself as my senses were assulted by the smell of salt, the consistent pounding and roar of the tide, the glorious spectacle of blue water meeting brilliant skies as far as I could see.  Nothing else exists in these moments. I am centered, protected, shielded, alone.  The beach has become an integral part of our life together, with yearly flights to the shore--first with family, then alone on an island honeymoon, now with our own children.  I've watched them embrace this magical place from the days  they toddled in swim diapers into the foaming surf and later squealed in delight as the waves caught their boogie boards and sent them careening toward the sand.  I've walked miles of smooth sand pushing strollers, ridden bikes across the endless expanse with them in a small pack beside me, even run marvelous freeing foot races until we all collapsed, winded and giggling, to the welcoming surf. 

Once, I ran away to the beach, with all three of my children, without telling my husband.  I walked barefoot into the sunsets, letting tears stream down my face.  I looked for seashells and answers.  I prayed and reflected and looked for strength, because I had been drained. Then, at some point, I whirled around on the sand, arms outstretched, my face lifted to the sun...  I needed space; I needed to be free; I needed my husband to understand that things had to change.  Our kids needed these things too. They have come know the seashore's power to erase the pressure and uncertainty of an imperfect life.  They feel, as I do, an attachment to the creator of such a marvel, such a soothing display of awesome power.  They now understand how important it is to sometimes run away.   For life, and love, is always waiting for our return.