I have always been a beach gal, since the age of 8 months which I’m pretty sure is the first time I stuck my teeny toes in the surf I’ve been in love with the sun, the waves, and the sand. Home movies show me with my brother, sister, and cousins ridiculously happy frolicking in the waves. From eight months to 22 years old I was lucky enough to live one block from the beach every summer. And then nine years ago I moved to the mountains. I made sure to tell my husband (I’m pretty sure daily) how much I hated the mountains, they’re just big rocks, they don’t move, there’s no shells or sea glass, or strange sea creatures you find washed up at low tide, no hermit crabs, or sand dollars or water. Just big rocks in the high desert… and then in the last few years I felt myself falling for them. At first it was subtle a beautiful sunset that lingered far longer in the sky than anywhere else I’ve lived, the natural hot springs, the wild rivers, the rustic log cabins in the woods, bugling elk at Estes Park, and the mountains, the beautiful, wonderful awe-inspiring, mountains you write poetry about (Katherine Lee Bates did anyways). I think those big rocks are growing on me.
The Writing Nag