Footprints in the sand

Shouts and screams ring out as my 10 year old daughter and 5 year old son race down the dune. Shoes kicked to the side, he chasing her, in an explosion of pent-up energy from the long car ride. The low sun catches the far off water at the horizon and rolls in fumbling over each indentation in the sand. A minefield of footprints mapping the way from the dune to the waves with breadcrumbs. 

She has her arms wide, catching the cool, humid air as she sprints. He’s just behind her, almost reaching out to her with his hand - calling to her, in a childhood gesture of growth and being left behind.

We walk, run, and explore this place we have never experienced before. Transitioning from the soft to the moist sand. Our foot prints morph from sinking deep to our ankles to perfect molds of our heel and toes. The cool, wet sand massages my feet, yet supports me, and I notice the wind.

The breeze always seems somehow stronger at the beach. Possibly from its unrelenting nature without any shelter. Or maybe it’s the tendency to pick up tiny projectiles of sand and quietly pellet your legs with them. Today, though, it was most notable for the movement it brought to the beach itself. 

As we made our slow, serpentine, walk to the water, I began to notice the foot prints. They were being filled in within seconds of my children running past. As if an eraser were slowly and gently washing over them, the wind filled their crevices with blown sand. At first, a little lump on the leeward edge. Then, a noticeable softening of the entire print. Until finally, the print was completely unnoticeable.

I looked back to see my foot print do the same. Trailing me like a quiet, definitive, inevitability, my prints, too, soften into the flat open, wet sand. A blank canvas behind us where we just walked. A blank canvas in front of us, where others had just passed. 

It’s as if the beach was speaking through the wind. A quiet reminder of impermance and presence. Words without voice. From the throat of the universe, back to life itself.

How much longer will I hear those shouts and screams? How much longer will I get to chase the small prints on the beach?

Over and over again, I learn the importance of presence. The inherent value in experiencing the eternal now. Every once in a while, I get the opportunity to truly step out of planning or narrating my experience and into the real world. I get to feel the sand pelt my face. The bulge of the beach in the spaces between my toes. The depth of love in my heart for my children.  

Then, just as quickly as the wind came to speak to me, it left. “Daddy” caught my attention from down near the water. I let go of trying to etch this moment into my memory, and I go play. These wordless lessons speak to me even now, reminding me gently that this too, does not last.