One square per day

sunrise from the boat deck

There are two things going on in Lake Powell.

One is fast and the other doesn't move at all.

In the vacuum of morning I listen to my body breath in and out.

She creaks and stretches the previous days' surf from her muscles.

She looks up and out from behind wind blown hair. 

As the wings of one black bird stretch space, she is up there with it.

My kids aren't here.  My husband is still asleep.  All the houseboats are dark.

It is just me.  I await the stirring of the world.  I welcome it.  

When I first wake up, the sky is still dark.  I can see Orion's belt. 

I wish I had my computer so I could write and remember this.

There is an impulse to keep it.

I want to bring it home and carry it in my purse so that I never yell at my kids again.

boat zooming

The sun comes up and with it 100 bodies.  They are eager be in the water - naked - free of clothing and adult weight.

I bounce from boat to boat in a hot pink bikini transcending my 30's.

I surf every chance I get, like a kid with an ear for the ice cream truck.

My appetite to be out on the water perks with the first grumble of boat engine.

I bound across the sand like a happy dog and hop over the deck.

The wind skims my back and makes eyes squint..  I curl into Andrew's chest.  It is a warm cave.

Our first year together, Andrew had a boat.  We were on the lake every weekend.

It feels that way again.  

Before kids.  

Before the 4 bedroom/2 story house.  

Before joint bank account.   

Before yard work.

We'd wake up at 6 am.  Drink lattes.  Have sex.  Wait for the wakeboarding crew to stumble in half asleep.  Then blast down the freeway in his red engine of a truck with music pushing against the windows.

Once again, the music is loud, and I am quiet in our space together.  The boat is brimming with people.  The most unlikely dancers erupt out of their seats.  I am not one of them.  I never have been.

"You're beautiful, Sarah," he whispers into my hair.

And I believe him.  I feel beautiful.  I feel simple.  It is easy to find grace here.

The age difference flattens to nothing.  Some of my favorite people are here and they are much older than I am, but not in Powell.  In Powell we are all children.  Underneath our play rests an awareness.  I catch it sometimes when a new surfer stands up on a board for their first time. They let out a cheer.  Eyes meet.  We smile and nod.  We are blessed.  

our camp.  10 houseboats.

 I do get scared still.  It is hard to eat here sometimes.  I try to be moderate, and in that effort I take it too far and let my stomach shrink.  I try to ignore it.  I pretend I don't have an appetite.  I am not the only one.  I take comfort in that.  I am a woman, and with that comes the pressure to be thin.  I am not so quiet all the time.  This is why I cherish the morning.  In her space I find a truth which I carry for one whole day.  "I am enough."
By the time I lay down for bed, this belief is worn thin as one sheet of toilet paper.  That is all I get each day.  One square, and it has to last until the morning where I will find another one resting on the sun's rim.

At the end of each trip I think, "I made it."
One whole week in a swimming suit and I didn't have to starve or binge or lie.

campfire gathering of 110 people

this is exactly how it feels for me.