Our sandbox

I know. Enough already with the balmy beach shots in January, while the rest of the country is under snow or at least insulated with cloud cover. I've been visiting the water's edge here in our neighborhood at least once a day for the past week and I just have to share what a magical thing that shore has become to me. Living near the beach is not just a novelty anymore. It is a place where transformations take place--every single day.

During my post new-years-resolution mornings I've been rising early to go for a wake-up jog in our neighborhood, and no matter how I mentally plot my course, as I step into the brisk 6:40 a.m. air, I always wind up on the beach, and not just because I live on a tiny island. I believe the mighty Pacific actually pulls me, as if the undertow can reach beyond the foamy line that separates the surf from dry sand. And when I get there, my calf muscles fill with cement as I trudge through the sand and I let my body slow down. That's when it happens. I find myself somewhere else entirely--not altogether out of my own body, but not exactly in it either.

The air smells like dreams and the thundering tide pounds in my eardrums and forces me to think about how small I am and how immense the universe must be. I get out of my own head for a moment and lie on the sand asking God how I can teach my kiddos that day to be significant in such an expanse.

Soon the sun burns away the fog and later the warm afternoon light lures us outside following grilled cheese, picture books and naps. The little ones and I always end up at the ocean again. L and C find little dunes to climb, giant boulders to scale and coastline meadows to sift through in search of purple flowers that look like feathers. We run up sand mountains, then shush down the side like we're skiing in the Alps. C's toes find the tracks left by lifeguard rigs and he follows them until a flock of nervous seagulls causes him to change his course so he can see what they're hunting for.

L tugs my arm and pulls me toward the surf, where we pluck tiny beaten-up shells from the watery, glittering earth and she gives me careful instructions about keeping every treasure we collect because they will be important decorations for the sand castles we're going to build on top of the magic hill. The magic hill looks like an ordinary sand dune from the surf, but as we approach it I remind L that fairies probably hang out there and they're waiting for us to build those castles so they can float down from the heavens for a ballet recital. We sculpt a couple of modest six-inch-high mounds, but when we sprinkle those tiny bits of pearly shells over their tops, the mounds really do start to look like dwelling places for the wistful protagonists of any good fairytale.

Just then, I become the fairy godmother and L is the feather fairy--you know, the one who gives the names to all of the baby birds when they are born. It is the feather fairy's birthday, so we make a cake, poke our fingers into it to count 3-and-a-half-candles, then I sing to her. After L blows out the candles, she declares baby C is a new bird and he shall be called a robin.

Soon after, C and I turn into tigers and chase the feather fairy off of the magic hill on all fours, producing our throatiest growls. At last, I lure bro and sis back to the roadside with a hunt for beehives to collect enough golden goodness to make honey-and-peanut-butter sandwiches. They are delicious.

Disappointment immediately sets in as our bare feet touch the hard concrete and I bring up the topic of shoes. We turn our backs to the ocean and my heart starts to sink a little as my thoughts turn to dinner preparation and the mound of dishes I've let collect in the sink all day. One more glance over my shoulder and the sun has already descended another inch closer to the sea on the horizon.

I won't be running at dawn tomorrow as N is away on a trip, so the waves will have to find another way to lure me back tomorrow.