A bikini epiphany

Last summer as I walked through the underbrush on a trail down to the river, loud music and boisterous laughter rose from below. Thinking a gathering of teenagers must have overtaken the beach, I was surprised when a raft the size of a small living room floated into view overflowing with women well past their teenage years. In the middle, a woman held court, her full-throated laughter leading the others.

There is a boldness to women who laugh loudly with such abandon - who wrap voluptuous bodies confidently into neon-colored bikinis, unconcerned about lowering their voices or hiding their bodies so as not to be noticed.

I stood there in awe, soaking in the freedom of their wildness, and whenever I encountered them last summer, my heart was filled with unexpected joy.

Now the summer begins again, and today the leader of the bold women was back at the beach. She had staked her claim on the rocky shore, and her presence compelled me towards her to engage in conversation. As she was beginning to stretch out alone on a blanket on the shore, I greeted her and asked about the missing swim dock.

“It belongs to a friend. We will be bringing it out soon…” and then she added in a gravelly voice, raising one arm in the air to wave an imaginary jug,

“It’s our pirate ship. When we float on it, our motto is “t*ts ahoy “

Caught off guard, I burst into laughter and had to keep myself from running over and giving her a full body hug just to say thanks.

Because I think I have been looking for her since birth.

All my life, I have hungered to come into a space and not diminish myself just to avoid drawing negative attention. I have hungered to be comfortable with letting the joy I feel within escape without parameters. I have hungered to not feel I have to stand on this same shore in an oversized grey t-shirt just to feel safe in my own body.

So, yes, I wanted to hug her and say thank you from the deepest reaches of my heart.

Thank you for taking up the space you deserve. Thank you for talking in your “outside voice”. Thank you for taking the part of your body that society objectifies as the focus of male sexual desire and unapologetically claiming it as your own.

Every single time I encounter you on the beach, your mere existence encourages me to claim the space that is my birthright. You exemplify what it means to live with a “t*ts ahoy” attitude, boldly and unapologetically. And you give me hope that maybe someday I, too, even at 74, can live free from the unwritten rules that have shackled me on my own shore.

Embracing the noise

When the temperature hits a certain point in the Northwest, the river’s siren call becomes irresistible. I know this because when I exit the car into the normally quiet park, I hear the sounds of children’s excited squealing and the splashing of dogs leaping into the river’s current, their happy barks signaling a quest to fetch a toy or a stick.

After carefully navigating the sandy trail to the water, a scene opens before me that sings of summer. Sunbathers on colorful beach towels soak in the direct sun, and the breeze carries no hint of the coconut scent of sunscreen. Parents keep a watchful eye over children hungry for the coolness of the river, while teens gather in pursuit of summer love.

Our golden retriever, anticipating the toss of her river toy, already stands knee deep before my feet touch the river rock, and I quickly wade in to join her before tossing her toy into the current. Further out in the water, a mother stands with her daughter who cannot be more than four or five. They have waded out together, and she reassures the young girl that she will be fine as they stand holding hands in the shallow waters.

A wailing sound brings my attention to a man walking with his son. The boy’s flailing arms and unintelligible, loud vocalizations suggest that he is probably autistic. His patient father encourages him, gently guiding the boy’s arms as he walks towards me. I walk up slowly to join them both.

“Would your son like to throw the toy for my dog?”

The dad smiles and places the toy in his son’s hands. Together they toss it into the water, and the boy quiets for a nano second as the dog bounds across the shore after her river toy.

I bend down in front of the boy for a quick moment and whisper quietly. “You did a great job throwing the toy…” His father smiles, mouthing “Thank you,” as they continue down the pebble strewn shore. In their wake, a new sound emerges. Tucked under shady bushes on the bank, a young mother reclines on a blanket singing to her baby in a language I cannot understand.

As I stand at the shore of the Nooksack I am reminded of walking in my old neighborhood in a city with an average age of 78.  I was stopped by a neighbor, his face hard and critical, as he demanded to know what the rules were about people renting to families because he didn’t want to hear the sounds of children in his neighborhood.

Well…I do. 

I want to hear the pulse of vibrant, passionate life happening all around me and not just dead stories and a litany of complaints about how the world has changed. I want to hear mothers singing lullabies to babies and the pulsating soundtrack of teenage summer love. I want to hear the uncontainable joy of shrieking children on a riverbank.

And I want to revel in it the way my dog rolls in the warm, wet stones after a plunge into the cool waters. 

The precious sounds of life. 

The only one I will ever have this side of heaven.

A grumpy neighbor…

Neighbors on our little street would speak kindly about each other, unless discussing the grumpy neighbor. Sometimes her name would come up, and eyeballs would roll, and descriptive words would come up that were less than kind.

My first encounter with the much maligned neighbor happened when I walked past her front window, and she quickly hobbled out calling after me. I feared a scolding, but instead she grabbed my dog Zuni’s head and kissed her, exclaiming her deep affection for golden retrievers 

When an ambulance took her away one night, no one really knew how to get a hold of her. A stroke was followed by a triple bypass and a long stint in rehab. Her caregiver let us know our neighbor wanted no visitors, but I found out dogs were allowed in the care facility, so I brought Zuni.

She was sitting in her room staring sadly out her window when we entered. She turned when I cleared my throat, and she announced a bit harshly, “I said I didn’t want any visitors.” 

“That’s okay. I am not visiting you.  Zuni is. She missed you.”

After she returned home, her caregiver asked if I could supervise during her vacation. My aversion to bad attitudes did not prevent a reluctant “yes,”, but I quickly discovered our neighbor had a wicked good sense of humor.

I began to look forward to every single encounter because we laughed much, but we also had some really honest discussions about what it means to grow old and live with gratitude in bad circumstances.

While under my care, she texted me after she took her medication and finished her meals. But sometimes she actually called because there was something she couldn’t remember.

She just had moments of lostness, and don’t we all?

Her caregiver is back now, but our texting routine continues. Last night before I went to bed, I heard the familiar text “ding” and opened it,  expecting a simple, “I ate. I took my pills.” Instead, she had written,

“…all done. Love you. Sleep well,” and it made me cry.

We often still visit in person now to connect and laugh.  In those times, I try to remember, “everyone sits by their own pool of tears,” and listen as she tries to unravel a lifetime of scarcity when it comes to love. We have that in common.

Sitting with her now is a place of sacred listening where cracks open up and love is a two-way street. I get to witness the miracle of her discovering the raw territory of being loved not in spite of who she is but because of who she is.

A little grumpy,

A little broken,

And a little bit like all of us trying to make sense of a diminishing world.