Sea air and solitude. Harbor seals frolicking in the bay then flopping on the nearest sun-drenched rock. Cypress trees, seagulls, skies of blue, and the sweet smell of flowers blooming on the trail from here to there.
Other people's children. Other people working. Other people vacationing.
And the constant backdrop of salt water drifting in, millions of ripples moving in synchrony towards the shore, churning in creamy foam when they arrive from the horizon.
But mostly the sea air and solitude.
Josh and I are in Monterey together for a few days. He's attending a conference, and I get to just be. The kids are playing securely in Grandma and Grandpa's love and affection. I imagine they miss us in the quieter moments between giggles and games just as our thoughts turn to them in the space between our delights here.
It is at once completely familiar and completely novel to move about my day without them.
I simultaneously miss them and cherish each moment I have to myself. I imagine watching the seals with them and then return to the pressing decision of where to settle in for a glorious afternoon of reading and writing without interruption.
Motherhood has changed everything and nothing.
I suppose it's because I am still me, but now I am also more, belonging as much to Ben and Abby and Josh as to myself.
It's nice to realize that, though life is different, below the roles and circumstances I am not. In the sea air and the company of myself, I am content. And when Josh and I return to those precious blondies sleeping soundly at Grandma and Grandpa's, I am content.
Wherever I find myself in the journey from horizon to shore, I am, and this understanding is good.
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