Things that aren't a cure-all
But are a cure-some.
Three days ago I got a rejection email. It’s not important what it was for. When I first pitched, I remember telling Sean I didn’t even care much about the specific opportunity anyway. (“Why not try?” was the extent of my excitement. “Why not try!” he agreed.)
But the rejection came after I spent a lethargic day at a public park, feeling simultaneously lonely and observed, and either “I didn’t care much” was a plain lie or reading another canned “our apologies, but…” was one disappointment too many. Regardless, I sputtered inside a rip current of what am I doing and am I any good and do I contribute enough (to my relationship, to my friends, to society) and I’m wasting time spiraling, aren’t I.
So, naturally, I went to the beach.
On my way to pick Sean up from his office, I replayed the opening line of Noah Kahan’s “False Confidence” a dozen times. (I imagined the van’s stereo system was irritated with my constant rewinding. I imagined the whole world was irritated with my existence.)
Don’t take yourself so seriously, sang one of my favorite artists, over and over and over. I started to believe him just a little.
As I waited for Sean to appear in the parking lot, I posted a video talking directly to the camera. This is still uncomfortable for me—I recorded two takes, actually—but I knew I couldn’t be the only one feeling confused and low and in need of connection.
Scout, forever sensitive to my voice’s timbre, nuzzled her head against my chest.
“It’s going to rain soon,” Sean said when we arrived at the beach. “We can make it,” I replied. The storm’s first front had just blown through. Clumps of seagrass littered the shore, adorned not only with man o’ wars and broken shells but hordes of plastic: bottle caps and wrappers and jagged pieces of once-admired sand toys.
We turned around, disgusted. From the van I grabbed two oversized garbage bags.
The work was washed with shame and wonder. I held an old hairbrush with two fingers. I saw the tiniest ghost crab. We discovered not one, not two, but three discarded shoes. I cried both for the havoc my species is wreaking on this ocean I love so much and for the simple joy of walking with toes in the sand, clearing a miniscule stretch of beach on which the pipers might safely scavenge.
The skies opened up as soon as we filled the second garbage bag. We were soaked through and laughing by the time we got back inside.
“Is it cake?!” Mikey Day shouted with entirely too much enthusiasm. Sean and I sat in the van’s cab chairs, finally dry; Scout lounged on the bed. I organized a few emails and shared ramen noodles with my begging dog and most of all laughed at my husband’s enjoyment of the silly Netflix show. He loved it so much more than I thought he would.
I love him so much more than I thought I could.
The next day I watched sunrise over the water amidst a round of tug with Scout. I considered how lucky we were to have a dog-friendly beach. I considered how lucky I was to be there: by the ocean, in the sand, alive at all.
We walked next to the waves three more times before dark. I read a collection of essays start to finish. We fell asleep early, three creatures on one bed, no room to spare, not even for doubt.