I just returned from a weekend in Boston. Boston in the fall.
I can't retell how lovely it was, only to say it was almost as breathtaking and divine and majestic as home. That, of course, was the trouble.
First there were the mountains. Snow capped and beautiful. But that's not what I was waiting for. And when finally I did see what I was after, it took away my speech. The ocean. The glorious ocean. Pulling in late at night, I could see it stretching down the beach for miles, the waves breaking with a fury, the moon as the spotlight. And I could hardly contain my excitement for what the morning would reveal.
Disappointed I was not.
Thinking on it now makes my heart long for it all again. This is the closest I've been to homesick since leaving, because this weekend has been the closest I've been to home. The closest I've been able to relate anything to the lunch hours we snuck down to the beach, or days we hiked to some bright spot, or mornings we woke early to the sunrise. Closest to the crashing waves and boat rides and sea wind.
It was the first time for one girl on this trip. Her first time ever seeing the ocean. And this struck me because I cannot imagine a life without.
A life that never stood out on a jutting rock as the water swelled up, being sprayed with sea mist as the wind blew salty hair into tangles. That never leaned over the dock trying to catch all the white jelly-fish in sight. That never ran in, on a late August night, and watched as the movements made the phosphorescence light up. That never simply sat beside, looking and wondering at everything, because the magnificent expanse could not help but provoke your mind to engage in the beauty and grandeur that lay out beyond you.
Magic. It has always been. It will always be.