The eighteen-year-old in our family, currently residing one state north, was home this weekend for the first time since starting college. As the two of us sat with windows rolled down at the beach, sipping our favorite coffee, she informed me I’ve been slacking in my blogger duties. “I keep checking Mom, but there is never anything new.” I hung my head. I’ve joined two writing groups, one local and one online, each of which require reading and critiquing, and I’ve given myself a writing goal that means putting Middle Passages on the back burner, for now. There is writing going on, behind the scenes, and lot of everyday living, but not so much happening here. Sometimes, you can’t do it all.
But then, you get a warm long weekend in October when the sky is so clear the land has sharp edges. The points on the oak leaves are visible and the outlines of the houses lining the harbor are etched in fine pen and ink. You walk a barrier beach, picking up flat stones and skimming them across a mild chop toward the sailboats still moored against a backdrop of yellowing trees, and take a trip in the dinghy through late season rollers—toward a lobster boat hauling its traps, out by the rocks. On the shore, sea grass turns from blonde to brown to rust, and all this provides fodder for a blog post, especially because you happened to remember a camera.
