I’m Still the Girl with Sand on Her Feet

Whooosh, whoosh, whooosh, whooosh

One…two…one…two…one…two…

Left pedal, right pedal, left pedal, right pedal

My body moves in tune to its made-up-riding-a-bike-song, a three-quarter measure staccato piece, made up by my feet, harmonized by the creaky left wheel in key of G, and accented by the occasional bravado huff of an angry lung. Fifteen miles behind; fifteen miles ahead. Left-right, one-two, whoosh whoosh, eyes on the sky wheels on the road, don’t mix them up or flying you’ll go. My hands slip a bit from the unfamiliarity of the weathered handle bars. A thousand miles away from home, on a tiny island, on a road who’s name I don’t know, maneuvering a bike borrowed for a day. The coin is still up in the air if this is the beginning of a memory or a disaster. I woke up with no intention of this cycling adventure, but through the persuasiveness of an red-headed best friend find myself peddling towards an ocean shore. Somehow our discussions of “a light beachside bike ride” turned into us following a hand drawn map sketched by a local with crinkly eyes and a deep tan, convincing us life-changing lobster rolls were absolutely on the other end of the island. I looked over at my friend and sensed based on the twinkle in her eye I could either say yes to the adventure now or spend ten minutes arguing and say yes to the adventure ten minutes later. I decided to save the time and for once, come along for the ride.

If this kind of spur of the moment decision making sounds quintessential of me, you are exceptionally wrong. I don’t own a bike in my metroplex. I don’t show up to towns I don’t know and use maps drawn by strangers to get to a lobster shack I’ve never heard of. Normally on a Tuesday, you would find me tucked away at a desk, singing a similar made-up-typing-my-work song.

Click, clack, click, clack

Alt, tab, alt, tab

Backspace, enter, backspace, enter, backspace, backspace, delete

Normally at 1 pm on a Tuesday I would be fluttering around the floor slightly rushed but never late to the next meeting. I would be in a pencil skirt with heels that delicately dance between severing nerve endings in my toes and chic. My make up is done, my hair carefully styled, err, my hair coaxed into a hairlike form, my walk straight and fast, I flit, I fly, I try not to trip and die. From 9 to 5 I am mesmerized by the number wheel flashing across my eyes, the view occasionally broken by side conversations from coworkers, or an aimless staring contest with the pictures on the wall. The wall always wins, and I try not to let these losses defeat me. I would not know what the weather was like outside, or if there were birds chirping, or whether or not the breeze was coming from the perfect direction of slightly Northeast. I would know my trial balance balanced, that the coffee on the 3rd floor is better than the 4th, and that I’m running late to yoga and better hurry up and get over there so I can chill out, but quickly. I would be deeply concerned the instructor might go over five minutes because I have veryspecifically allotted my work out time and I need to hurry up. Yes, that’s what I really do on Tuesdays, I hurry to this, so I can hurry to that. And then do this and that at the same time so I can cram in some more this. But not more room for that, I’m trying to be balanced after all.

Yet today, on this remarkable Tuesday, I find myself not in an office, and not in a skirt. In fading jeans and muddy keds, I peddle away to the mystery beach. I glance back to ensure my faithful cohort in this day trip is still journeying with me, and return to the endless stretch of highway. As my bike song continues to hum along, I feel the rhythm weave a lulling feeling over me, partnering with the sun on my skin to take me slightly out of reality. A whisp of a wind barely touches my face, taunting me with faint scent of the ocean it just left behind before kissing me. There’s something about these ordinary things, like sunlight, and blue skies that wakes me up, the part that’s been buried in worry and need. Deep down a hibernating bear has been living in my brain, lulled to sleep by numbers and practicality, patiently waiting till the sun pokes its head in to let it know spring is back. The dreamer and believer tried valiantly to talk over the disappointed realist, until finally they both lost their voices, and they haven’t tried to say much since then. But this ridiculous bike song seems to have hit just the right note, where it lured the realist to rest, and stirred the dreamer back up.

Nudge, nudge,

Push, push,

Come run with the made-up-bike-song

How could such a simple machine have such a heartfelt song? I had spent hundreds on books, and seminars and classes in attempts to wake the wonder back up. I would sit on my bed and try to will it awake. “Help me smell these roses! Look at this sunset! Enjoy this art class! Read this book on deep breathing!” All these things would maybe make the dreamer roll over, but fast asleep it would stay. Yet in five miles a cranky metal machine knew just what to sing. What in the world is happening to me?

The sound of waves on our right alerts us we have reached the intended destination. We hope off our bikes and drag our jello legs one at a time soundlessly towards the sandy shore. I absentmindedly take off my shoes, a natural act of reverence to honor the salty sand, that suddenly feels sacred. My body seems to have decided it knows what’s next, and my mind stays silent, letting my legs do the work of shuffling to the water.

One foot follows the other until my feet touch the sea. Without warning, suddenly, and abruptly, I am hit inside with an unseen wave of relief, that is thankfully metaphorical rather than literal. The lush landscape stays hushed around me, as I quietly dig deep in my graveyard of buried things. The harsh chill of the endless winter, of years of being frustrated and anxious, disappointed and disappointing, building and breaking, begins melting under the heat of these warm feelings stretching out. As the water washes over my toes, it starts pulling, washing over the rusty memories, asking me to let it take a few. Some memories hurt as they leave, clawing and grasping to keep their hiding place. Some brush by in a burst of laugher, old days I had let fall to the wayside, now skipping up to remind me they just needed a good washing to be lovely and sparkling.

I let the ocean continue its rhythmic task of pulling things out and putting some back. I let each moment have its turn, the sad ones I hug a little closer, to let them know I felt them too that day. The ones full of rage and anger, I send off to wrestle each other in the deep. Some are gray and hazy, from days that were monotonous, or days that were colorless from hopelessness. I brush these off, and let them sit in the sun, till they get a little color back, till they find the happiness in even their long days. Some of them are so beautiful, like stained glass. They are treasured, lovely recollections, as unaffected by time now as I felt in the moment. They had been hiding from the brunt of depression, but now I sense they will be safe, and ready for display. My collection of dreams, vast and wonderful now, stand free from the heavy chains of layered disappointment and apathy.

As the ocean and I work in tandem to get my head back on, I feel a flicker of hope stretch tentatively out, unsure if it is allowed. It cringes a little, used to being crushed. I let it linger, and move a little closer. Excitement tentatively creeps in next, whispering to hope, wondering if maybe it could live here again. They softly murmur to one another, thinking perhaps the whimsy and wonder of the child they grew up in have a place in the adult. For once I’m right here, on the ocean, and not wishing to be a thousand miles away. I’m enjoying the way it feels when the wind tosses my hair. I don’t know what time it is, and I’m not late for anything. I’m here, I’m present, and I’m awake. The dueling battles between what was and what could be have reached a truce. I know they will still bicker, as being awake is really just the first step to being alive. Perhaps the battle I’ve been fighting was wrong. The battle to control, to stay safe, to guard fiercely my independence, to never again face the death of loss. Perhaps the battle is not to stay safe, but to stay engaged, no matter the pain.

I’ll return to my desk, and my tall shoes, and my excel formulas. We both know though, there won’t be the same girl on the other side. I won’t be sending in the humanlike mannequin, clocking in, tuning out. I’m going to stay awake. I’m going back, to start planting these seeds of dreams I received. I’m going to add to my collection of exquisite memories, and not let the gray ones keep me from looking for every color I can find. When my bike song is a faint melody, and I need to remember, the new song I’ll quietly sing as I click on my keys:

I’m still the girl with the sand on her feet

I’m Still the Girl with Sand on Her Feet

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