The Dog Days of Summer
The heat is oppressive and the cold air conditioning is almost worse. It feels as though I am living in a terrarium, looking out at the world through the condensation of glass panes. It’s hard to generate enthusiasm for getting outdoors. But I feel cooped up. Restless.
We pick up corn from the farm for dinner and decide to drive the 45 miles to Colonial Beach. I am spurred on by a travel video I saw online of my small hometown. Through the eyes of a tourist, the town looks like a hidden gem. The destination quietly beckons. I need to see for myself. The promise of a curious future drives my commitment to our travels.
The afternoon sun glares, washing out colors, pressing down on us like a hot iron. Despite the heat, I lift the camera, and we talk of the past and the future of this small town. I am fairly well convinced that there is no picture here for me to see, but I am not content until we have driven around the point (The expression, to ride around around the point, is reserved by locals for the act of driving the perimeter of the peninsula, mostly as a daily ritual of mindfulness and comfort.) At the tip of the point there is the Dockside Marina where I see this little house boat, her adventure stalled.
Even as the left side of my brain works to create the picture, lining up the horizon, choosing a revealing angle, selecting only the most necessary details, the right side begins to imagine. Expanding my repertoire of safety beyond the familiar rhythm of constant motion. Where I stop running from uncomfortable emotions and instead create space for them.