Thin Places

I'm writing from the 15th floor of a chic boutique hotel in the fabulous city of Chicago. Michael and I have been traveling a bit these past two weeks, three states in ten days. Much more than we usually travel, but what a wonderful way to explore and experience life. It does take some mental strength for me to see beyond the hectic schedule- rearranging and allow myself to transition quicker than I like to.  As with running or swimming, I do best when I have a chance to warm up before finding my pace.  I also face a twinge of mother-guilt when we're not home to share dinner and stories.  Fortunately, Meg and Owen have learned how to transition well, between activities, between two homes, and texting has come in handy for staying in  touch with their generation.  They were able to join us on our trip to San Diego which made all this traveling easier and added a level of value to it because it allowed them to see how and what we do when we travel.  Basically, we find a body of water to swim in, we run to become familiar with our surroundings, we eat foods specially known to the region ( fish tacos in San Diego, grits in North Carolina, deep-dish pizza in Chicago), we visit the art museums, look for retro/vintage shops, and whatever else comes our way. Tonight, we have tickets to the Second City Comedy Club which is where many of the Saturday Night Live and other famous comedians have made their debut, John Belushi, Tina Fey, Steve Carrell to name a few.

With all the traveling we do, and we have been to some remarkable and memorable places like Paris, London, Barcelona, and Beijing, but none have given me the sense of a "thin place" quite like the places closest to me. What is a thin place?  I only recently heard of it, in an article I read from the travel section in The New York Times. A thin place is described as a place where “we become our more essential selves.”  It is often sacred, but need not be.  Its location, population, or its cultural reverence, does not matter.  What matters is that it both invigorates and calms the senses, a place you feel alive and safe.  You cannot plan a trip to a thin place.  There can be no expectations.  I suspect, only a veil separates you between heaven and earth, where I imagine, the veil feels like skin.

For me, the garden is a thin place.  So is Nauset beach and Skaket beach, and Herridge’s Bookstore, and Michael’s skin.  These are places where I can breathe, feel air.  I can let thoughts in my head get wet, rinse, spin out. The colors, the smells, the textures burst.

The garden is earth and heaven.  Dirt under the fingernails makes it real.  Sprinkled seeds in a quarter-inch row open to sky. Thick, dark soil, full of possibility, smudges my jeans. The smell of roots, rock, and left-over kale mixes with sun and rain. Always a weed to pull.

To swim at Skaket beach is to ride across land and sea where the pink vista hypnotizes, waves sing me a lullaby, and sand flats cast a spell. It teeters two visions: the verduous depths of the sea and blue with a sun.

Nauset beach has its own magical way of carrying my bare feet along the firm sand. I love how it exposes itself like a Polaroid picture when the tide ebbs. I connect the rocks, casted like stars, with my sandy toes.  Michael runs zig-zag in softer sand beside me and we stride to the furthest point, free of beachgoers, and free for a quick skinny-dip.  The head of a seal, like a periscope, is our only witness.

Drive towards Wellfleet Harbor at dusk and you will see the light on in a little house, piled with books.  Herridge’s Bookstore smells of dust and cedar. I never make it past the first few feet on my left.  Here,the poetry books sit on disheveled shelves.  Michael finds his place a few feet to the right in the art corner.  Two feet behind me are the young adult books, a genre I’ve never outgrown.  The owner, with his easy smile, chats on the telephone to his neighbor.  In this space, nine feet by twelve, I have all the time in the world. 

 

Under well-worn cotton sheets, where my form traces his, I find the space I long for most.  Smells of linseed oil, chlorine( in the winter when we cannot swim open water) and sweat intertwine, and the hum of night seeps in from the window above our heads, a Christmas candle light still taped to the sill.  My essential self sleeps.

I loved the description of a "thin place." It made me think of mine, and realize you don't have to go far to find it.

"It’s a helluva start, being able to recognize what makes you happy.” – Lucille Ball

Thank you carrot friends for allowing the space to speak of  matters important to me, and for sharing what I find beauty and truth in, and hopefully inspire you to do too. What are your thin places?

xo bess

Call Me Bess

When I was in college, my best friend and I took an Introduction to Jazz class.  It was a welcomed break from the conservative sciences of Physical Therapy's core curriculum, and the diversity of students was terrifyingly more interesting, in a good way. Wild hair, nose rings, drumsticks tapping us on our shoulders.  This was how the other half of the campus lived and I loved it.

We learned to sit in a room with headphones and count the beats to Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, and Coltrane. Carlene was a quicker study because of her high school band days.  My high school days of soccer was no match.  I shouldn't have quit  piano when I was nine, but there I was, engrossed in the rhythm of sound...was it a trumpet or trombone?  And then there were the great ladies of jazz--Ella, Lena, Bessie.  For an entire semester we became them.  Carlene took Lena, Maureen took Ella, and I took Bessie.  We crooned our hearts out, karoke-style in our dorm rooms, studying of course.

Carlene, never stopped calling me Bessie, eventually shortened to Bess.  She even named her daughter after me...Tess ( it rhymed with Bess). When Michael heard her call me Bess, he immediately caught on...yes, Bess is your name.  He had a favorite Nana Bess, and now he had me.

Michael and Carlene are the only two that use that name...the two people that know my most intimate self, but I'm ready to share, to open the name up to the creative world.  Christine, I'm sorry to say, doesn't have a poetic sound, and being a lover and writer of poetry, it just won't do.  I've tried.  I've submitted a few pieces of poetry and exhibited under my given name, but it doesn't resonate with my emerging poetic self. Bess is singing in my ears...Love, oh love, oh careless love/ You fly through my head like wine.