The beach is that way - so, we keep walking.
I could write a novel on the range of emotion and the events of the last calendar week (roughly - technically, I’d go back to last Tuesday, which is more than a week). I won’t. I also have lots to say about my travels over the long weekend, but I’m not quite to that part, yet.
Instead, I’ll write this:
It’s funny how things seem meaningful in life, and we have absolutely no idea just how important they will become. “The beach is that way.” The beach. Returning. Home. What matters most. A way back. A way out. But it was just this little joke we had… a joke based in one of the more serious novels I’ve ever read. A little joke and a little novel that would (literally) tattoo my life forever. And I couldn’t have known.
On Monday night - on Memorial Day - I sat in a Scottish bar outside of Boston with my oldest and dearest friends, mostly tuning out a game of trivia as we begged the time on the clock not to advance. Then, a final question: Where, in relation to Scotland, is Dunkirk?
DUNKIRK. THE BEACH. IT’S THAT WAY. A rush of emotion —-
Memorial. Remembrance. War. Love. Everything in between. Everything worth fighting for. The damned beach. Home. Grass. My stupid flag sunglasses. This sick feeling in my stomach. My head literally spinning. Words.
I know the answer to this trivia question, and I know why it’s historically significant, and I know all the irony that the rest of the room can’t. Part of me wanted to stand on the table and wave my arms and jump up and down and yell, “The beach – it’s THIS way!” But it’s tough to see a girl in a red dress, jumping up and down, waving her arms on a table in a little Scottish bar from half a world away, I supposed. So, I kept my seat. I stared at my wrist, at my phone, at my half-consumed cream ale.
Why Dunkirk? Why the beach? Why all of it? I felt like the universe was nudging me – but I couldn’t decide whether it was snickering or looking at me with big, sad, sorry eyes.
This beach – it’s not sand dropping off into white-capped waves. It’s home – and I don’t mean a place. It’s what we come back to. It’s what we’ll do anything for. It’s what we defend. It’s what makes the world make sense. It’s not, by the way, pretense, or a pedestal, or hypocrisy, or bragging rights, or facade. It’s everything gritty and real, this beach. It’s what a map isn’t necessary to find, and it’s the north on a compass that’s never going to break. It is – as one of those dear friends so aptly put it – fullness. It’s what we wait for. And yes, yes I’m quite sure it’s this way.
