Driftwood

Two years ago, our family of five packed a suitcase per person with all our favorite things, left ALL our belongings in California, boarded a plane and arrived in Panama City Beach. Today, it’s a sunny, wanna-be-spring Saturday afternoon and I am sitting in my backyard surrounded by the arrival of pink chrysanthemums and a light breeze from the Gulf of Mexico. My husband is sitting beside me brushing tiny shells and sand from a piece of driftwood he wrestled from the water last week.

When he retrieved and rested the driftwood on the sand, he admired the intricately textured piece of wood. It was midnight dark and drunk with saltwater. Some parts were smooth like velvet, while other parts were chipped, layered and filled with holes in varying places. As though the driftwood had told him its tales, my husband nodded in affirmative and astounded me to no end when he decided to take it home.

As my husband brush the sand and debris from the driftwood, I think about our family’s journey here to Panama City Beach, to this little townhouse – a two – minute walk to the Gulf. To this space within myself that acknowledge the wisdom in nature – in a piece of driftwood, no less. The driftwood is a traveler. It is a work of art – with its holes, etches and layers because it’s been on a journey. It is intricate and textured with stories untold, and so are we – so are the travelers of humanity. We enter spaces certain that some people will grate against our flesh with their negativity, some will seep their loveliness into our souls, some will heal our wounds with the medicine of their words and some will offer us new spaces to play and explore.

Over the last two years, our family of five have watched the sun rise and set over the Gulf. We have played in its salty waters, swam in the freshwaters of Lake Powell and inched our way into frigid waters of Econfina Springs. We have tested our palate with unfamiliar foods: fried pickles and okra, pulled pork sandwiches, grilled Oysters, and smoked Mullet. The latter is best enjoyed with a cold beer, in the company of new friends telling old tales, beneath ancient Oak trees in a yard overlooking the Bay.