Quitting the Rat Race
As a result of one of the courses she teaches, Sammy is selling her house, car and entire worldly possessions to move to the coast, live by the sea and write books. Here are a selection of writings on that subject, including 'My Fake Journal' in which she describes her future life as if its already happening right now.
I'm stirred by a dog slapping his wet muzzle on my neck obviously wondering whether I've expired, and I roll over laughing. It's already a great day.
'Lundy. Southwesterly gale force eight expected later. Wind. Southwesterly seven or gale eight at first in southeast, otherwise northwesterly four to six. Sea State. Rough, becoming moderate later. Rain then showers. Visibility. Poor becoming good.'
Willow is attempting to open the front curtains by herself, so I help her achieve that, pour some coffee into my flask, grab my waterproof and step out. As Billy Connolly once said, 'There's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.'
There's a consistency and flow to the tides that I find comforting. On rough water days there's a constant sound of rushing water that's hypnotic. It's that I focus on now as I march up the beach, my muscles getting a bit of a wake up call.
By the time I've done the bathroom thing, put the kettle on and opened the curtains in the front, the sky is just beginning to lighten. I see one torch on the beach, likely an early dog walker. I get it; when I'm meditating to the sunrise I feel like I'm the only one out there. It feels like the whole world is asleep and toasty in their beds. It's just me, the sand and the water.
In this reverie I calculate I've walked at a good pace for twenty minutes or so. I'm at the fluffy sand and appear to have caught up with the white poodle, who's now plastered in sand and chomping on a stick which has some seaweed hanging from it.