Sunday morning and I rally the family for an early adventure. The Bohemian is up for anything, and the lure of donuts is enough to get Jeb enthused.
We head to the beach.
“Are we getting donuts here?” Jeb asks.
In the course of our outing, we get rain and hover beneath a kamani tree. Wait while several squalls come in waves.
The Bohemian is covered in goosebumps. Jeb climbs tree limbs and finds a citrine crystal embedded in a knotted hole.
A shoe gets lost, then found. There’s talk of turn-around, then a rainbow. We continue on. Discover two golf balls in the river mouth. Get sunshine as we climb the muddy bluff. Enter the condo-sprawling suburb, where Foodland and sprinkled glazes await.
Post-donut intake, Jeb’s sugared up at the town park, swinging like a wild man as more wind whips another shower our way.
The old-fashioned glaze doesn’t digest well in my stomach. The wind agitates me. This escapade was my idea but I’m bothered. I should be enjoying. Instead, I just want to go home. Be warm and dry. Peaceful.
I know it’s not really the weather. Something about my internal barometer is just a little off.
This feeling will pass, just like the clouds. I know.
And as if to punctuate the point, by the time we hike back down the bluff to the beach, it’s a picturesque day of sun along the sea. Jeb and the Bohemian go swimming.
I seek solace in minutiae. Ground myself in sand grains.
Find some deep sense of satisfaction in simply looking closely.