Sunday vacation

I grumbled about our mad dash to the beach late on Sunday but it was the BREATH that we all seemed to need. The oppressive heat at our house gave way to cooler breezes and views that make you shake your head that views like it exist.

I plopped myself down on a blanket close to the food while English hubby and Sweetpea ran somewhere way over there....

...to look at anemones and climb rocks.

I was grateful. Yet melancholy. I thought with the coming of spring that the upbeat side of my nature would step back in more permanently but it hasn't happened quite yet. I'm always aware that there will be a moment, uninvited and almost unconscious, when I'll feel an unfamiliar emotion and later identify it as joy.

I wish the definition of melancholy weren't so -- negative, strange as that may sound. Because it's as if I'm just touched gently with it for the most part. My melancholy walks side by side with wonder and gratitude, and only very occasionally dips down deeper. I'm aware of my blessings and my luck in having a joyful girl who bounces up the stairs to greet me each morning, and doesn't seem to take offense at my moods. Yet. She's only five. And a hubby who is considerate and gives me space when I need it.

I don't talk faith much. It's deeply personal and something that I play tug-of-war with - pull it close, push it away. Mostly push it away. But looking back at my footprints (and then snapping a pic) reminded me of the footsteps in the sand story. And it both comforts me and weirds me out to acknowledge that I know.... KNOW, that there are times in my life when I'm being carried. It sounds nutty, even to me, but faith is nutty.