I'm vacationing this week in lovely Hawaii with my two small daughters and my husband. Our first day here it is sand blows in your eyes windy. But being from Seattle where there was ice on the ground when we left, we go to the beach anyway. Just to look actually. The adults in our party thought it too chilly and windy to swim but we put the kids in their suits, slathered with sunscreen (my daughter's and I are the fairest people on the beach) just in case they might like to dip their feet in the water. It is just a walk to scope out the beach for later, you know, when the wind stops blowing and it is a bit warmer. The adults don't even put our swimsuits on or bring any snacks or water. We are just looking.
Well, children don't scope things out for later. They don't care if it is too windy or cold or whatever the excuse may be. They just care that before them is water so blue and clear you can see strait to the bottom to the fine sand and striped fish swimming. And they care when they put their sweet toes in the blue water that it is warm and feels oh so lovely on their sticky sun screened skin. And they jump in. My five year old plunges in as a matter of fact. She swims under water with her eyes wide open, her golden curls cascading above the tiny ripples. Her sister, twenty months, who cannot swim I hasten to mention, follows immediately behind. She splashes and jumps and moves her chunky arms and legs like she can swim. She heads away from me to deeper waters. I pull her out several times and still she leaps in for more.
And right there on the beach I have a little thought. This is metaphorical for my own life.
I spend a lot of time worrying I'm wasting time writing a novel when I may not have any talent, or connections to publishers or hell, even anything to say. I think as I'm pulling Emerson out for the fourth time, I should just write like my girls jump in the water. No excuses, no fear, with joy.
