Deep sigh.

I had a wonderful afternoon at the beach with my hubby. The tourists are gone, the temperatures are perfect – it was just a lovely afternoon.

I’ve been to the beach here more times than I can count in the last twenty years, but in line with my mindfulness goals, I wanted to really be present at the beach today.

Where we sat, there was a little stream of water that had formed a small sand bar. The waves were low and slow, and I went out to the sand bar and sat down.

I was acutely awards of the hiss of the waves as they whooshed in around me, withdrawing just as fast with a foamy fringe of retreat. I watched the sand piper race the surf, frantically puncturing the sand for mollusks before the water returned.

I closely examined the tiny shells that were already at the end of their life cycle, but were delicate, beautiful treasures in my hand. I felt the white sand fluidly melt away under my hands by the relentless pull of the tide.

My breath matched the cadence of the gulf waves. The seagulls swooped and sang overhead, as brushed cotton clouds slowly drifted east. Behind me, the rustle of sea oats framed the horizon.

I sat there for several minutes, just taking in the beauty in the sights, smells, and sounds around me.

I’m so much better for it.

Ten years ago I got married to the love of my life.

He’s not perfect – neither am I – but he is pretty awesome.

Eight years ago I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

My hubby had always been in my corner. He encouraged me as I went from couch potato to half marathon runner (x20!)

He ate the new low carb food I cook with no complaints, and supported me as I struggled to get healthier.

He was at the finish line when I did the WDW Glass Slipper Challenge – a 10k one day, half marathon the next.

In August, I got the devastating news that I was a type 1 diabetic, and would be on insulin for the rest of my life. He’s held me as I cried. He’s patient when I’m wrung out and completely exhausted by the disease.

I’m sick of it all. Some days I’m so frustrated I can’t see straight. He reminds me how fortunate I am to have the Omnipod and Dexcom.

When my blood sugar tanks in the middle of the night, he gets up with me and stays with me until I am back on track and stable.

I hate being sick. I hate being a burden. He never makes me feel like I am either.

All I want is to get back to running – but so far I haven’t found out how to do so without my blood sugars tanking. In the mean time, he walks with me.

I’m very blessed to have a husband who loves me in sickness. When I took those vows, I had no idea what it would mean to me.

They mean the world to me now.

I have the misfortune of being on the east side of fading tropical storm Gordon. A storm, by the way, that was just at hurricane 1 strength when it hit last night.

I’m grateful for the ability of weather experts to prognosticate when and where a tropical system will hit. I watched this storm race across the Gulf of Mexico, and I didn’t think it would impact us much.

Wrong, I discovered last night as the tornado warning came out. We spent almost 45 minutes in the walk in closet, watching the news on our phones, as a sighted tornado took aim at our area.

Sigh.

It’s now been raining continuously for almost 25 hours. Even with our quick draining, sandy lots, there is a lot of flooding.

I’ve been waiting for the rain to stop so I can go to the store – as I write this, another gust of heavy rain has blown in.

For all the good of forecasts, I still look forward to the end of hurricane season. With two more storms ramping up in the Atlantic, it gets old fast.

I guess I’ll get my rain boots on and grab the big umbrella, and head out. Better now than when the dark of nightfall is added to this mess.

‘Tis the season for hurricanes.

I’ve lived on the Gulf coast for 18 years now – and weathered more tropical systems than I can count.

The year that I moved here, I arrived on a Tuesday, and had to evacuate two days later on a Thursday. That first year, I evacuated 3 times.

Now, I’m like a lot of “locals” – I track the storms, watch the central barometric pressure, study spaghetti models.

I will be the first to tell you I’ll sit out every storm that’s a category 2 or less, but I’m out of here if it’s going to be a cat 3.

The big hurricane Ivan that knocked out my power for three weeks, that had me stuck working in the hospital three days with no A/C and no way to check on my family – it may have been 14 years ago, but the residual pit my stomach nausea is a low rumble now.

We brought in the flag, secured the patio furniture, took down the ferns. It may be premature, but it’s easier to do it now than when it’s raining.

It may be much ado about nothing. It often is. We will still check out battery supply and fuel up the cars, just in case.

Looks like the long weekend just got a little bit longer.

Ah, Mother Nature to the rescue again.

We planned a Labor Day getaway to Calloway Gardens. They lost our reservations, charged us a fortune for a night – so we are heading back home on a long drive after this one night.

But first…

We are going to enjoy the gardens. I’m ready to breath some fresh air, see the beautiful flowers, listen to the cicadas in the pine trees.

I’m waiting to go now on my fourth floor balcony – I’m in the canopy, watching the gentle sway of pine and oak, a few clouds brushed thin over the blue sky.

And breathe.

We will be hiking around the grounds after we visit the butterfly house, and say goodbye for the last time to this place that was so inhospitable.

Thank goodness for the Gardens. All is forgiven in them.

I am a mountain girl through and through. My heart is happiest when I am in the mountains – specifically the Wasatch Front in Utah.

In 2000, I moved to the coast to be close to my family.

I am glad to be near my parents and siblings, but I miss seasons. I hate heat. I hate humidity. And cockroaches. And fire ants. I could go on. And on.

The one saving grace about this locale is I am less than an hour from my door to the Gulf of Mexico.

The Emerald Coast is, by far, the most beautiful stretch of beach I have ever been to, and I have been to a lot of beaches. Hawaii, the Philippines, West and East coast beaches in the US – none can compare with the beach here.

First of all, it’s not sand – it’s silica. Powdery soft and brilliant white, it is the reason the water is such a beautiful hue.

The water is clear and warm – almost every time I go, it’s a green flag day. The waves are subtle, the water is clean, and you can see clearly to the bottom.

It doesn’t take long to drive past the main beach accesses to find an almost completely secluded spot to relax. After floating on my back and listening to the ocean sounds, my next favorite thing to do is just lay on a beach chair and soak it in. There is so much beauty to behold – I love the little sand pipers racing up and down with the surf. I’m amused by the ghost crabs tentatively peaking out of their sand holes, to scurry across the sand. The sea oats sway as they cling to the forming sand dunes, framing the unnaturally beauty around me.

It’s a place where you leave the cares of the world behind.

It makes living here bearable.

I need to go there more often.

In keeping with my Winnie the Pooh thoughts, I realized this afternoon that today is my half birthday. Commence singing the song, if you know it.

I’m grateful for every day now – more grateful than I used to be before I got type 1 diabetes, with all the fun and hoopla that comes with it. I realize that life is fragile – those days when my blood sugar is plummeting and I can’t stop it and I’m reviewing with my spouse when he should call 911 bring this into clarion focus.

My life now is about accountability, exercise, close glucose monitoring. I’m eating completely differently than I used to. I’m up to seven miles of walking a day. My blood sugar this week has been wonderfully stable. But that was this week.

I never imagined I’d be the chronic illness person. Actually, I’m working at living at optimum wellness, despite my diagnosis last year of both diabetes and asthma.

A very half birthday to me, to me – and many more.

I went to see a movie today with my oldest son. We had a thoroughly enjoyable lunch, followed by a viewing of “Christopher Robin”.

My son grew up on Winnie the Pooh books read to him at night, and watched TV specials, and the occasional movies. Just like Christopher Robin, he is all grown up now…but of course, the simple truths remain.

The one that really struck home in my heart is living in today. Don’t worry about tomorrow, or yesterday- your favorite day should be today.

When I was working full time, commuting, and taking care of my home and family, I was not enjoying my “today”. I was frazzled. I was not 100% anywhere – I was fractured everywhere.

I’m glad that I can breathe now. I’m grateful that today I could enjoy an afternoon with my son. I love that the chili is in the crock pot, that I got to sit on the porch with my dog, and that I am blessed to be writing as I do my laundry. I’m looking forward to an evening with my husband and our youngest son.

No worries. No stress. No life and death.

Just today.

And that’s enough.

I spent several years in Alabama when I was growing up. Daddy was career Air Force, and his career path took us through Montgomery when I was 4, 9, and 12.

My Mama was born and raised in Alabama, and I’m sure my childhood upbringing had a lot to do with her memories of summers in the south.

We didn’t spent any time indoors, that’s for sure. We would get up, eat breakfast, and head outside. Many days we were off and rolling on our bikes, and we knew not to come home until lunch time. Once we had lunch, we would go out again, not to return until Mama called us for dinner. After dinner, we were outside until the street light came on, playing kick the can, or hide and seek.

When I was 9, we lived in a new development. The air was heavy with the scent of red clay mud that was being moved around to make way for new homes.

We’d listen for the call of frogs and toads, and find puddles deep enough to be swarming with tadpoles. Often, the hot humid days would dry up small puddles, and we’d rescue the squirming tadpoles from a certain, muddy clay death.

We’d scoop them into flat Tupperware containers, lined with creek bed silt and rocks, and filled with water from the garden hose. We’d deposit the slimy dark amphibians into the water, and they would immediately swim all around. When we got home, we’d settle them on the back porch in the shade, where we could watch them as they developed. Every evening after dinner, we’d sprinkle dry oats over them to feed them.

We would spend our days racing our bikes, stopping beneath the wild and heavy laden plum trees. In the relative coolness of the shade, we’d eat plums until we were sick, juices running down our hands. Sugar bees would soon spoil this respite, and we’d wipe our hands on our shirts or shorts, and race off to our next adventure.

After dinner, we’d check on our tadpoles. It was always amazing to watch their tails get shorter, even as little legs began to sprout. We’d place bigger rocks in the plastic home so they could climb them, and in what seemed was no time, they’d be hopping out to a new life.

We would just refresh the Tupperware, and begin again. There was never a dirth of tadpoles.

Such was my childhood made of.

I have purposefully put my office and writing nook on the second floor.

In this state with so few trees – and the ones we have are not be full, lush, towering beauties of Northern climes – this room looks out over a large live oak tree in the front yard.

Light filters in through white sheer curtains, further occluding the view of the suburb I live in.

I go upstairs to escape – escape noise, stress, and people. I escape this populated area I live in. For me, it’s my modified tree house.

My dream is to live in a small home on several acres. I want to cultivate my own vegetables and fruits, and I want chickens. I want long country lanes to walk, where the weeds grow tall, and the butterflies and dragonflies dip in and out of the wild flowers.

In the mean time, I’m blessed to have a two story home, where a walk up the stairs can transport me out of the cultured lawns of the neighborhood. When I look out, I see branches unpruned. I watch squirrels chase each other, hopping from branch to branch. Where rain showers are loud on the roof above my head, and dip the oak leaves down, to bounce up and wait for the next plop of water.

It brings clarity of mind, when I can’t escape the humid grip of endless summers in suburbia. A cool color palate and soothing decor in the room also help to calm my soul.

Now that my mind is clear, untroubled, and I’m breathing in this portal to nature, I’m ready to write.

I’m ready to go where my imagination takes me.