I heard it snowed in Glacier National Park this morning.
Oh these days are hot. These days are humid. These days are also filled with adventure and stories about the deep blue sea.
We had out toes in the sand, again. Somehow, despite my longing for crisp mountain air, I desire the smell of salt lingering in the wind, almost to call us back to the water. After five years, the emerald waves that brush over the white sandy beaches have finally made it’s way to my resistant heart, and I begin to yearn for the warm gulf water to embrace my north loving soul.
My daughter, on the other hand, has been a child of the sea since the day she was born. When we park our little blue car in the parking lot parallel to the beach, I hear Aspen scream, “beach, mama! Beach! Oh, thank you mama!”. As I wrestle her out of her carseat she leaps to the ground and takes off running to the expanse of turquoise waters, at which I call for her to slow down and wait for her mama.
She was born of salt water and sunshine, with little fear of the subtle swells ahead. She is the modern day Moana. Her love for digging her toes into the sand and bathing out in the sun while I read a book about ships that have crossed the restless seas have sparked my own euphoria. Her curiosity as a cownose ray swims against the waves, entertaining themselves as they surf in the shallows is overwhelming, and her excitement as she picks up another shell while digging through the sugar white dunes reminds me to find equivalent excitement in my own life.
We are so different, yet the same. And I think that is why we have each other. What I lack, my daughter has an abundance of, and vise versa. My little sapling is more like a little starfish, but that’s okay, as long as she is my (and Scott’s, of course!) little starfish.