Yesterday I stood on a sand dune as the fog moved in and out, obscuring the Manitou islands. Far below Lake Michigan swept like a broom over the sliver of beach. This is an inland sea, as wild and mysterious as any mountain range.
I've flown across the country to be here at a conference, shuffling sleep-deprived through three time zones and getting stranded for twenty-four hours in Chicago. (Note to self: there's a great Urban Garden spot in the O'Hare airport. Terminal 3). Wondering why it is that in an empty gate, someone plops right next to you with their smelly McDonald's food. Why people still don't know that they can't travel with hidden containers of liquids in their bags. I have to confess: I really hate the airline part of travel.
But there's something about going back to a place where you haven't been in years and years that stirs up all the silt in the bottom. You can look back at your younger self and think things like, you have no idea, honey, what you have yet to face.
Or maybe not. Maybe you can just stare mesmerized at the place where the land ends and the water begins. The edge of the world, it looks like.