Day Fifty Seven: The View

Room view.

I'm in a place where being sad just doesn't exist. And it's pretty darn fantastic.

My friend Rosy and I have been talking a lot, which is apparently what I needed to do. Of course it doesn't hurt that I've been using a little "liquid courage" as a release, but she's got this gift of an unbiased ear that makes me spill my guts, So between our jabbering mouths and multiple cocktails--and did I mention the incredible scenery?--I can't help but smile all the time.

Beach view.

I've regaled my friend with tales from my childhood and current circumstances, often wondering where I was going with a story and then shrugging my shoulders with a laugh. I've talked about my Mom, Dave, the kids, my sisters, my Dad, and the collection of friends that have helped or hindered. I've openly wondered about future plans and wished for things that would seem foolish in another place and time. The directness of my thoughts and words are liberating, and I am feeling rested for the first time in months.

View of Rosy getting attacked by some waves.

There are moments in life that, when looking back, you can identify as a turning point. You say to yourself, there, that day and time--that's when I knew everything would be okay. Something clicks inside and the fog lifts from your eyes.

My eyes.

When I look back on my trip to Montauk, I'll remember this view and the calmness of my thoughts. I'll remember sitting under an umbrella on this beach, looking out at the crashing waves, and almost hearing that click in my head.
Sunrise this morning.

And I'll hold on to this and know it was simply good.