But I hate to travel. If I even leave my house for too long I have a panic attack. When I am leaving for work, I make it to the end of the driveway before I have to go bac(more)k in and make sure everything is unplugged and nothing is on fire. I check the outlets and utter a mantra so I will remember later when doubt sets in: "Oct 31. Everything's off. Door's locked. All is well, all is well."
I have never been anywhere hot. Yet I think of beaches, not the rough kind of beaches in the Pacific Northwest, but the faraway kind where the sand is white and radiates the glare of a tropical sun. Where the ocean is an improbable swimming-pool blue. I have never experienced a warm sea or a shore that isn't rocky with barnacles. Yet somehow this white beach is a fixture in my brain.
I know that if I could look down from above, that swimming pool ocean is a-swarm with sharks. That sand is groomed and milled, trucked in. The debris of storms is hauled away, no logs or garbage left, no corpses of crabs, no dead fish. But that sandy crescent seems like a peaceful cradle for dreams, for letting go, for serving as a mental refuge when the world around me is itchy, when I feel chased away from sanity and my own skin, when nothing seems possible and everyone around me is outpacing me ten steps to my one. I dream of a brochure-esque silence, the salt air, the salt skin. I dream of being absorbed by that kind water.(less)