When my kids were little, crossing the Bourne Bridge meant counting the bridge lights and looking for boats in the canal. To me, crossing the bridge and arriving on the Cape meant that my shoulders finally unattached themselves from my ears, and the muscles in my neck relaxed. I know that geography shouldn’t determine my attitude or disposition, but the Cape does.
It slows me down and allows me to see what I often miss in my standard busyness. I’ll have a leisurely second cup of coffee in the morning and wait two weeks before changing the bed linens. I enjoy the imperfections in my daily routine instead of clutching and fretting over them. There are weeds on my front yard; some of them have really pretty flowers. My dinner plates are purposely mismatched, all somewhat white, all different shapes. I don’t plan my meals ahead of time; I go to the fish market and ask them what I shouldn’t leave without buying. They never steer me wrong. And I do eat the most outrageously delicious bread pudding with whiskey sauce at Pie in The Sky, and I don’t care if it’s realllllllly off my paleo/no carb/no sugar diet.
Before I go to sleep, I take a quick look at the night sky from our deck. There are no streetlights, no city beams to disturb this universe. I finally know which way is north, south, east and west—something I’ve never managed to learn in suburbia. The peepers croak the weirdest tunes that make me smile—I know what they’re doing. And every once in a while I’ll get up early enough to hear the bird chorus; it starts off with a single voice, reaches a delightful group crescendo, and then tamps down to a tweet. The best kind of tweet in the world is not limited by 144 characters, and I appreciate it here at the Cape.
There is something about living near the sea. The winds are stronger. The thunder rattles my bones. Trees are gnarly, and rocks are more abundant. The combination of sun and sand heals everything. It’s brighter, darker and on the edge. I love it.