There was a big tower of cloud out over the ocean, looking like a huge plume of smoke. This finger into the sky blocked out my view of the sun as it rose over Cape Canaveral beach.
But there, the amniotic water lapping at my feet, while I couldn’t see the sun, I could know that it was there, lifting into the day, as it lit the clouds and water with rose, red and orange hues.
The light may be blocked from view, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t illuminate the world as it rises. Oh, wait; that seems like a metaphor for something.
From the plane yesterday (and 9/11 is a good day to fly standby) I was struck by the margins of the land as it met the sea, that thin strip of beach which forms the doorstep between earth & water.
I am the verge, I thought, that space between, and that means I am always on the verge.
And it’s verge again with Mama TBB as gracious hostess, laying on an impromptu dinner party last night that was a delightful mix of food and people.
Today it’s Atlanta, moving again through the world. But as I walked back from the beach in my denim skirt, a lady walking her dog on the crossover said hello.
TBB says people are friendly down here.
Good things can happen on the verges, I guess.
Callan 