We’ve arrived. We’ve arrived at the real beach, on the Atlantic, and it is stunning. There are waves crashing right now and my father has this happy puppy look on his face watching his kids and grandkids on the beach where he was once a kid, and I was once a kid, and where the waves keep rolling, just like they always have. “Today the waves are really rolling,” he says with excitement, gazing out, Ax’s 2-year-old cousin Parker at his feet studying grains of sand. “Yes they are, Dad.” There’s history on this beach for us. Feeling this sand, this particular sand, brings me into contact with my babyhood, girlhood, teenagedom, young adulthood, and now, closer to the end than the beginning of this journey, all at once. Being here is like a heavy heavy heavy hit of pure joy, pure gratitude, for this incredible life I’ve been given, that I was born into. And now I get to share it with Mike and with Ax. What a gift. Amazing.
As I write this I can hear my son Ax and Parker playing outside, literally shrieking and squealing with delight at just being with each other. Here, whatever story I have about being a black sheep, being an outsider, being unlovable and unknown, here that gets healed. We are all trying to have a nice time, together. Loving each other through the surface differences of food intolerances and bedtime differences and varying house temperature needs. Loving each other, loving being together, like the waves, a little different every year, but also kind of the same. This is my life, this is my family. I’ve arrived.