The simple joy

On Living: A wave crashes and I think about the war.

It’s February. We’re at the beach on the coast of South Carolina. It’s warm but not California warm. You fall asleep in my arms while your dad lays out the blankets in the sand.

An hour has passed and I haven’t stopped swaying, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My lower back aches. The kind of ache you can’t get away from. I accept it like it’s a part of me and focus on the feeling of your breathing.

A rhythm like the sea.

Finding solace in the pain. In being alive. In being here.

I took you to the beach in February last year. This same beach. I wore a dress with buttons down the front that was three sizes too big so I could fit it over my growing belly. It was so windy you could see the sand in the air like mist. It was in our hair and our eyelashes and the folds of our clothes.

I was filled with hope then. Hope that everything was going to be okay. With us and with you. With the world.

Turns out, everything is okay and nothing is. 

I look at you as you watch the tide flow in and out. An expression of wonder on your face. My heart swells. 

How did we get so lucky? 

A wave crashes and I think about the war.

A bomb drops and I bury my face in your neck, the sound of the sea in my ear. 

How is it that we’re here staring at the ocean with easy breath and quiet minds while an entire country is under siege?

Security. Safety. Privilege.

How did we get so lucky? 

I watch your dad set up the beach tent, angling it just right to block the wind. His patience and precision to ensure that you’re comfortable. That you’re safe. 

I think of the fathers who are saying goodbye to their children. The ones going off to fight for their family and their country.

The mothers who are fleeing with babies in their arms and kids on their backs. Leaving their home behind. 

The sky fills with explosions and I hold you close, feeling the contentment of your breath. 

No rushing. No running. No hiding. 

How did we get so lucky? 

What started as a simple joy is not so simple at all.

There is an anvil on my chest. A sorrow. A fear.

Not for me, but for them. For the families and the fighters and the elderly. For the country.

I don’t want you to feel it, my darling. I want to protect you from everything that is not here in this moment. I want to give you the simple joy of being here with me, with us.

Together.

Safe and untouched.

Let’s not miss it for it is a luxury that we may not always have.

The simple joy.

Let’s not take one second of it for granted. 

The water at our toes. Salt on our cheeks. The gulls overhead. The sound of the waves and your dad playing the ukulele.

There’s no before or after. There’s no somewhere else. No place to get back to. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to be.

There is only now and here.

Only us and the sea and the birds. 

How did we get so lucky?