Yesterday was one of those weird days that just felt generally heavy. A day where an ugly atmosphere of moodiness prevailed for no good reason. All morning, it felt almost like I couldn’t fill my lungs completely. There was an unseen, mysterious pressure squeezing down on me, closing in. Not a physical pressure. It felt more like a brooding anger or overwhelming sense of unhappiness. Not an entirely new feeling, it was one that made me want to tiptoe around like a quiet little mouse, not speaking, or moving, or acting in any way that could, potentially, cause further disturbance or disruption in an already unpleasant, unstable environment.
It was the kind of day that, in the past, would have sent me spiraling down into darkness, wondering what I did wrong, where I screwed up, how I could do better, be better. These days, I know different. These days, instead of doing anything and everything I could think of to make that darkness go away, or at least ease the burden of it by taking steps to lighten the mood, I try to separate myself from it mentally. I refuse to accept the ugliness. I try hard to say no to the instability that is not mine to own, and I move on with my own day.
It is never easy. And I know it could always be harder.
Yesterday, I did not react. Instead, I let the heaviness sort itself out. Rather than dwelling on it, trying to understand and make sense of the why of it all, I went to the beach. I smelled the scent of pine in the air as walked down the beach path. I bathed in the warmth of the sun, absorbed the visual beauty of my environment, listened to music that spoke to my soul. The end result being that I got to enjoy long, luxurious moments of peace. A whole afternoon all by myself.
The Universe still tried to fuck with me—there was a large, dead bird on the beach—but I didn’t let it. Instead, I sat still in the sunshine listening to my music. And to the waves. Absorbing as many positive vibes as I could.
I was in my own little world until an elderly gentleman came into my field of vision, speaking words I couldn’t hear because of my earphones. I stopped the music, reflexively chit-chatted just a little bit, expertly deflecting his attempts at conversation. Soon, he tired of trying and moseyed on his way.
As I watched him go, I realized what I’d done. For weeks, I’d been aware that I’ve been missing conversation. Feeling very lonely with no one around who wanted to talk to me. Why, then, had I deflected that guy who may also feel lonely, like me?
Watching him amble farther and farther away from me, I couldn’t help but think of my father. He’d been lonely, too, but was afraid or too proud to admit it. Fearing, I assume, that doing so might make him appear weak.
At that moment, I remembered the Werther’s hard caramels I’d thrown into my bag before escaping the camper for the beach. I’d gotten Dad hooked on those candies at some point over the past couple years. I’d bought him a bag, on a whim, while also buying a get well card to present during my visit with him in the hospital. He loved having those candies at hand in his room and would often offer one to the nurses, doctors, and various other folks who were in and out of his room, day and night.
I grabbed a couple of the hard candies and hurried after the guy. When I caught up with him, I said hello. I told him that I’d seen him earlier on the beach, and that something told me to catch up with him and give him a hard candy. He chuckled. At first, he declined, but gave in after I persisted.
We stood there, near the driftwood tree, chit chatting for a bit. About anything and nothing. He’d accepted the candy reluctantly, putting it into his shirt pocket, which is exactly what my Dad would have done. At some point, as we spoke, he put the candy into his mouth. While I talked, he held the candy between his teeth, smiled, and pointed at his mouth to make sure I saw him eating it. My father would have made a very similar gesture.
Just then, I saw a fox trotting up the beach toward us. After I’d pointed the fox out to the guy, he laughed and said, “Wheee!”
The sun was starting to set so I asked him if he was walking back toward where I’d been sitting. I could tell he struggled to hear and/or understand me, but didn’t want to admit it. He thought I wanted to say goodbye, so he put out his hand and introduced himself as Mel. I shook his hand, introduced myself, and explained that I didn’t mean to say goodbye. “I enjoy chatting with you,” I said, “and was hoping we could walk back down the beach together.”
As it turns out, he lives on the island and likes walking on the beach some evenings. He’s from Jersey, but moved to Dauphin Island because it’s such a nice place to live and so much cheaper than New Jersey, not to mention warmer.
I asked him if he ever got lonely. “Oh, not really,” he said. He volunteers once a week at the Estuarium (think aquarium). He’s got a sister and/or a great-niece in nearby Mobile. But he’s also excited and looking forward to a companion from Jersey who is moving to Mobile in a couple of weeks. He said he likes music, too. He doesn’t watch much TV because there’s never really anything good on. When he’s tired of TV, he listens to music. He likes lots of different kinds of music. And often, he likes to listen to his music and dance. “That always feels good,” he said. “Just dancing.”
We chattted some more as we walked. When we reached my chair, he held out his hand again and introduced himself as Murray. I shook his hand, told him my name again, and asked, “Murray? Earlier you said your name was Mel.”
“Mel, Murray,” he laughed, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I go by both.”
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Murray,” I said, then watched as he shuffled away.
I settled back into my chair, thankful that I’d made the effort to meet Mel/Murray, who I’ll forever remember as the elderly guy from Jersey who liked to listen to music and dance to pass the time.
My day ended on a much lighter note.
