Inland, outland

“My life is like a stroll upon the beach, as near to the ocean’s edge as I can go.” Thanks, Thoreau. I wrote that quote in my high school journal. Back then I lived in a Maryland suburb called Old Farm, so named because they had bulldozed an old farm to put up rows of houses. I was a beach refugee, encamped further from the ocean’s edge than before or since. One family field trip to a Delaware Coast Guard station in our four-year isolation from the sand, one history tour of our Quaker roots on the Maryland shore and, blessedly, those random otherworldly vacations to the lighthousekeeper’s guest cottage in Florida —that was it. All the other days in high school were spent inland, isolated from seagulls, never dreaming I would ever live outland, meeting up regularly with rafts of wild sea lions and breaching whales and one seal that would swim alongside a traveler, up and down a tideline, nearly every day. Now —if I miss a single day walking the tideline, even if I spice up the day with runs through an inland field or hikes through inland woods—Luke grieves, pacing around my legs, watching me all day for a sign that I haven’t forgotten the most important thing.
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Comments (1)


May 15th, 2020

11:18 am

Thanks for this Dreamwalk. So glad you walk that glorious edge These words bring me alongside.

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