We're back from our weekend at the beach. It's in the sixties and pouring rain outside, and my clothes are just now drying from our morning out. While she rode in the pack, Lucy pulled off my necklace and it was lost--a lovely piece I had made myself. Now the handymen are back (the term "plumber" really gets thrown around too loosely), because it seems the magic caulking job they did in the little corner last week didn't do the trick. They are replacing the entire waste pipe coming out of the toilet. The room is ripped apart as I write this, and they plan to be here for hours. When the downstairs neighbors next leave for vacation, their entire ceiling will be replaced.
But I am still on a beach high and I care about none of these things. I wasn't even that sad about my necklace. It's like being coated in waterproof spray--nothing can touch my sense of well-being today. Not even the fact of it being a Monday. My tribe slept for most of the train ride home and I stared out the window, listening to music, feeling like a human being. The memory in all my senses is still so fresh, I can close my eyes and feel the ocean's foam on my fingertips. I tried just now, and I literally can't get myself to even care about the rain in my Monday. My soul is still on the sand.