There are few places in the world where I feel happier or closer to God than on the beach.  Any beach, and I have seen a few: Orange Beach, Seaside, Panama City, Delray, Outer Banks, Cape Cod, Newport, Coney Island, the Hamptons, the Jersey Shore, Positano…I should stop.  I’m getting sad.  Anyway, the picture on the left was taken on Malibu beach (or the ‘Bu, if you’re nasty) while the BF and I were there last month.  It’s a slightly disingenuous shot, considering I had to dodge homicidal birds and their poop to take what was meant to convey tranquility and ease, but it’s still worth a thousand words.  No worries, I won’t actually go on for that long.

I just love the beach.

Some of the happiest moments from my childhood occurred at my grandparents’ condo in Perdido Key, Florida.  I remember sitting on the balcony after the sun had gone down and listening to the waves roll against the shore.  I would fall asleep and wake up to that sound and felt wrapped in perfect safety and comfort.  To me, a few minutes spent watching the rhythm of the water afforded me a peace that was reason enough to believe in God.  But then again, I’ve never struggled with believing in Him, so maybe I’m an easy sell.  All I know is that when I’m on any beach, I’m home.

Maybe that’s why I acclimated to this island of Manhattan so quickly.  Although it’s easy to forget that we’re surrounded by water when there are so many inland distractions.  Not to mention the fact that the shores of the East River and the Hudson fall way short of my definition of a beach.  They’re rivers, for one thing. So there are banks, not coastlines.  Another thing is the swimmability factor, and you couldn’t pay me to dip my big toe into their briny waters.  But they are pretty to look at, as most bodies of water are, and they make me feel connected to something bigger, as most bodies of water do.  So they will suffice for now (though the countdown is on!), but in the coming months, I will need more.  In the coming months, I will climb up three flights of stairs, enter my Dante-themed apartment, and shrug off my down jacket, hat, gloves, and scarf.  I will remove my snow boots and whichever sweater dress I am wearing that day.  I will throw myself onto the couch in what my roommate calls my Sprockets outfit, which has become my winter undergarment: black long-sleeved shirt, black leggings, black socks.  And I will close my eyes, breathe deeply, and take myself to one of the aforementioned beaches, if only in my head.  I will hear the surf and feel the sun and thank God that he doesn’t limit me–or Himself–to one home at a time.