Reentry

Reentry.

My sister nailed the word as I tried to explain my feelings.

It's the same word used for astronauts when identifying the critical time 

of returning to earth's atmosphere after time in outer space.

My transition was from a life and identity in Alaska to

another completely different one in Texas.

The mountain of mail,

phone calls,

schedules, 

commitments,

expectations,

unpacking,

responsibilities

were overwhelming me, suffocating me, burying me.

I wanted to run away from it all.

So I did.

 The generosity and kindness of my son and daughter-in-law

opened their beach house at Port Aransas to me.
I sense a change as soon as I board the ferry and
follow the dolphins and pelicans to Mustang Island.

Each day I spend hours at the Gulf or the channel.

Walking, biking, or just sitting in the breeze.

There isn't a therapy more effective for relaxation than listening

to the rhythm of the waves or the soft clatter of palm fronds blowing.

This is a time of deep breathing,

suspended between my other two lives.

Reflection. Resting. Reevaluating.

Sand between my toes. Salt on my skin.

A brief but necessary pause.
Passing the hours on "Island Time".

Making sure my reentry is a safe one.

Sign posted in the local coffee shop down the street:

Learning to relax.
Letting troubles roll like the waves in front of me.
Over and away.  Over and away. Over and away.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Reentry.
Island Style.