A string of words

It’s 6:57 a.m. and there's a trace of pink to the western sky. Through an open window I listen to the rolling thunder of waves that lie out beyond the sand dunes. The earth shakes itself awake. The Lord has brought me his new day, for which I murmur my thanks.

I came to our beach house yesterday to assure myself that it hadn’t been blasted to bits by hurricane winds that blew through here last week (it hadn’t), and to see if I could find some words while I was at it. I lose them at odd times, and it’s been an especially dry period lately. I find solace at our sea shanty and a loosening of spirit. It’s a good place to be when my soul is troubled and I’m trying to discern truth about things that seem to matter.

My thoughts organize themselves slowly, but I sense their presence. They loom like strangers who stand outside the door, motionless and silent as stone. The coffee-maker gurgles on the kitchen counter, and I know that whatever clarity of mind I can expect to capture today will soon be at hand. A long run on the beach comes later and with it a jolt of endorphins—the body’s happy drug. Abby, my four-legged companion, moans in anticipation.

There is promise in these moments, and an assurance that I’m not here alone or in need. Words, like agates on the beach, wait to be picked up and brushed of sand. A string of words turns magically into a sentence, and from that comes meaning. The dim light of dawn broadens into morning.