Through June, July, and August, we missed our early morning walks, but this week, we’re back.

I meant to write about distance today—how far, how fast, where we arrived. Instead, mostly what we found.

I found I can walk more than three miles, including one sub-18-minute mile just to prove to myself I could, and I have managed without limping, dropped three pounds, found a few pieces of seaglass in the sand (a surprise each time), observed sunning garter snakes and wild rabbits, and kept invasive red squirrels and Eurasian doves out of the garage. My foot is healing. I cannot begin to explain how all this cheered me. We always go out early, but for most of the summer, I could not walk more than three or four blocks, sometimes not even one. I have spent the summer getting off my feet before I began limping.

And now I can walk the beach again! On these longer walks north, we’ve greeted summer people we had not seen in almost a year. They wondered what happened to us.

The heat in Portland has been oppressive and I am reminded that this is the reason my mother’s family spent her childhood summers in an unelectrified and unplumbed cabin at the shore. It’s pleasant at the beach, and rarely hits 70°. We don’t mind weather unless it’s hot, so the shore suits us this time of year. We’ve come into town to shop, check on the plants, and visit with neighbors. At the beach, the sand is back too.

In January of 1999, a single tide dug under the sand and basalt and through our beaches off their normal sand-in-in-summer and out-in-winter routine. The sand used to come all the way up to the green by the end of most summers when I was a girl and throughout our sons’ childhoods. Then, that one tide took the sand away. But about ten years ago, I felt confident it was coming back. During low tide the other day we had over a hundred meters of sand in front of our home, a hundred of dry sand. We’ve had dry sand in front of the house for most of the summer. It’s been years.

I’ve had three book reviews accepted for publication, “finished” a ghost story, worked on three flash pieces, and at least one might roll into another story trying to find a plot. I worked on the novel and submitted to dozens of agents without much more than a nibble and a solid suggestion. Cut the novel into a novella because one press that opens late in the years suggested they were more likely to accept it as a novella, begun compiling two story collections, one realist, and the other speculative.

Every time I “complete” a step or a project, I allow myself to design a cover for something. It is a reward to myself. I strung those pearls, set strings of green garnets out for stringing, and ordered two more clasps. When was I buying strings of stone beads? It must be twenty or more years ago. How time flies when you’re having fun!