Seagrove & Rosemary Beach Memoir

[tivoli]

Learning How To Walk (And what shoes to wear!)
A memoir: dealing with the daily uncomforts of footwear...and growing up.
College Paper written - Daughter - May 2007 -

TENNIS SHOES
"Once in a while I'll get moved to do some exercise. It's something
I long for but the biggest problem is bending down and putting my tennis
shoes on. Once I go out I'm OK." - David Soul

I wake up and roll over on top of the eggshell blue comforter of my
family's Florida beach cottage to the smell of Seagrove Beach, Florida. It
was even better than waking up to the scent of Butter Rum coffee that had
become a rare occurrence since I'd left for college. The morning light seeped
through the white linen blinds of the large windows, letting me know it was
8am and the day was ready to begin with or without me. When I'm in
Florida, I don't mind getting up early. I don't dread my alarm clock and pull
my bright pink down comforter back over my head, praying that my professor
will cancel class or begin to count down the days until the weekend. In
Florida, I don't in a sense, wish my life away or attempt to fast forward it
to the point where I don't live in Greencastle, Indiana.

Sure, I have fun here, but I feel I don't have those moments, those
little seconds where you can find beauty in everyday life, that I have
experienced in other places. Studying abroad in Italy, I found it in the
pure taste of mango gelato. In New York City one summer, I found it
in having authentic Japanese sushi and green tea made with imported
pistachio colored powder with my roommate from Tokyo. On vacation in
Paris, I found it when standing in front of my favorite Cezanne painting
titled "Peonies" for the second time (I'd seen it once before at the MoMa).
In Greencastle, I can't even have an authentic Starbucks Nonfat Vanilla
Latte. No, you have to drive forty-five minutes to Indianapolis to get
one of those. Our beach house is another place of unpredictability and
thus, makes each day easy to wake up to.

On that morning, I decide to take a walk. I wasn't exactly sure where
I wanted to walk to, but one of my most favorite places close to our cottage
on the Florida Panhandle is the New Urbanist community of Rosemary
Beach. Rosemary Beach was established in 1995 and is about six miles
down the road, well worth each trip. Inspired by beachfront houses in
the Caribbean, the seaside community is quaint, charming and architecturally
stimulating, painted in cool subdued colors and rich chocolate browns...
There is a Zen like quality to Rosemary Beach. It's one of those "nothing
bad could ever happen here" type of place, that makes you feel at peace
and secure the moment you step within its boundaries. Yes, the perfect
way for an anxiety-laden person like myself is to spend my morning in
Rosemary Beach. Would I sit outside of Wild Olives market and have a
warm almond croissant and extra dry cappuccino? Would I grab a book
at the Trading Company and read outside under the palm trees? Or,
how about spending time at the cottage like spa for some aromatherapy
and rich Rosemary Mint lotion? I thought about these things as I quickly
walked along the sidewalk towards the small community and pass the
perfect green lawns and lush landscaping. I have on my pink Nike Shox
and at some points I speed up into a jog. I don't want to get hot and
sweaty, but I can't seem to contain my energy. Along the way, after
every few blocks of beach houses, I find the desire and motivation to
break into a run or speed up my pace.
Even the air feels so much cleaner than that of Indiana. Here, I can
taste the sea salt and feel it on my arms after hours of biking or long days
on the beach. Seeing a concrete oceanfront mansion titled "The Bird of
Paradise" in the distance, I know I am almost there. As I continue to walk,
I imagine the fresh ocean air blowing from the Gulf of Mexico to shore,
undisturbed and untouched. I breathe in as much as this air as I can
take in, completely fill up my lungs to the point of uncomfort and hold
it there for just a few seconds before I exhale and begin to walk again.
I begin to see the brown gates and the perfect courtyards of Rosemary
Beach in the distance. Had I traveled six miles already? It seems
painful to walk just a half of a mile to class sometimes. Seeing the
rustic central courtyard fountain of the shops, I knew I had arrived nearly
famished and sun kissed in my workout gear. I decide on sweet iced tea
and a Greek salad from the Summer Kitchen. It sounds fitting to get a
taste of summer in February. There are vacationers dressed in their
swimwear and beach cover ups, locals who look like they have not seen
the sun in days, and professionals in tie-less suits lunching on the small
tables outside the little cozy restaurant that looks like a sea weathered
beach hut. I pick a small table outside that had a nice view of all the
"action." Kids play Frisbee around the central fountain in the large
courtyard, two elderly couples walk their matching dogs on the green, and
a mother pushes her toddler in a stroller while window-shopping along the
red brick sidewalk. Anyone who meets my gaze smiles or gives a friendly
nod, many even said hello. Their natural southern charm simply adds to
the perfection of life in Rosemary Beach.
Some may think Pleasantville would be boring. I think it is fantastic.
I hate traffic. I hate pollution and get annoyed by bad manners. To walk
to the Post Office to pick up the mail, grab a carton of fresh orange juice
on the way home, and all the while having a freshly baked baguette tucked
under my arm, would be my personal utopia. I think Europeans truly
know how to live in this sense. They enjoy the ride and not just the
destination, and that is where we are failing. In a sense, these New Urbanist
communities are tiny European villages. They aren't really new, they are
the treasured old made new again, just with more efficiency, convenience,
and pre-planning. There are specific paths we usually need to take to
get us somewhere on time in a car. But, with walking, it's not really a
matter of time it's a matter of where you need to go. Thus, as long as
you get there, you can take any path you choose. And, maybe the
secret is to start enjoying the path and not simply the objective.
I would choose fresh air over a sweet tea any day.

[DD]

Love it!

[goofer44]

Tivoli, you must be very proud. Your daughter is a marvelous writer. I felt that I was walking right beside her to Rosemary.

[dunelover]

Great story, I felt it with all my senses!!! I made my husband get up to read it as well..

[tivoli]

Thanks for the compliment! Her Professor is a writer for Esquire.
She had to write chronology of Walks Through Life and it amazes
me that two of the memoirs are of SoWal.

I'm going to type the Barefoot one in the morning and it's about walking
the beach past Eastern Lake and Watersound.

This is why real estate in SoWal is irreplaceable with children's memories
in tow...

[pk305]

What a treasure!! The Memoir & your daughter, Tivoli!!

Thanks for sharing....and can't wait to see the next one....

[Beach Runner]

[BeachBella]

"Final" version
5/17/07


LEARNING TO WALK


Recently, I went on a walk to ease some anxiety. On my way back, I ended up walking through a meditation garden close to my house. On a billboard in the garden I spotted the words “Solvitur ambulando: It Is Solved By Walking.” Solvitur ambulando, is an ancient Latin aphorism used by the Greeks who believed you could dispose of a dilemma or problem by going out and moving in a relaxing way, instead of sitting and endlessly thinking about it. As an experiment, I began to contemplate about all the times in my life that I’ve had questions and walked to find answers, compiling and chronicling these moments and encounters.

Though I don’t have a clue what made me start, I feel as if I’ve been walking all my life. According to my mother, I learned to walk by pushing a cardboard Pamper diaper box around the blue carpet of my family’s living room of our first house. In the 1980’s, diapers still came in oversized boxes that were difficult to dispose of. At a frustrated 11 months old, I was having difficulty walking on my own and my mom couldn’t be there to use her hands to walk with me at every waking moment. So, by placing my hands on top of the diaper box, I was able to push it around the carpet of the room like a walker and it could help get me wherever I needed to go. Strengthening my legs and establishing balance, I slid the box over the carpet, picking up as much speed as I could. When the box accelerated to a speed that was too fast for me to keep up with, I fell. I don’t remember this fall, but it was not unpleasant enough to keep me from walking until I got it right. With each walk comes an opportunity, to get us exactly where we need to be. Where we are going and whom we may or may not choose to walk with, seem to shape the success of our own solvitur ambulando.



A Walk On The Beach

It’s hard to walk on the beach in tennis shoes. I have seen some people run a few times in their sneakers and I always wonder why they do it. Don’t they miss the entire experience of the shoreline? I would never pass up the feeling of sand between my toes and the enjoyment of every moment on the coast. Feeling the different textures of the sand is the best part of beach. The closer you get to the water the more you sink. But, in the extremely dry sand the farthest away from the beach, you sink as well. So, the best place to walk on the beach is where the sand is flattest, almost like smooth pavement, just above the water’s edge. It’s moist, but not too moist and on the coast of the beautiful Gulf of Mexico, it’s a brilliant white. It’s almost as if someone took strands of sea pearls and crystals, crunched them up, and sprinkled them into millions of pieces over the shores. It could pass for piles of snow, only it doesn’t give you frost bite. I took off my tennis shoes as I neared what would be my sand “track” and carried them in my right hand. Traveling the six miles from the nearest beachside community back home, was going to be different than walking along the highway sidewalk using my familiar markers. Those were what I relied on to tell me how much further I needed to go and possibly the amount of personal encouragement I needed to feed myself at times. Without them, all I could do was wait for the pale bubblegum pink mansion that towered three stories over the ocean, and signified the beach walk path to my house.

Walking on the narrow sidewalks along the highway, you had to consistently watch for cars, bikers, and runners sneaking up behind you. On the beach, it seemed there was space for everyone, and thus, room for one to get lost in his or her own thoughts. As I walked, I realized the beach was semi-deserted. For your typical snowbirds and beachcombers the lower-seventies meant jackets and sometimes fleeces. I felt perfect in my shorts, but looked out of place. I knew I had about six miles of beach to cover and I wanted to finish before late afternoon. Going into this walk, I hadn’t planned on it taking up an entire day, and now it seemed to be progressing that way.

But what was my hurry? This was a nice change of pace, to spend my day under the sun and not solely on a lawn chair. It seemed this feeling of purity, health, and serenity, could only be reached in my quiet moments I had, when the waves were crashing against the sand, the sea air was blowing at my face, and the beach was quiet. During those rare moments, I was at peace with no obligations, nowhere to be, and without anyone specific I had to talk or answer to. I was completely free of all constraints and every thought and action was deliberate. It was the beach and I, and nothing stood between us, not even shoes.

There is something liberating about walking barefoot. The beach is the one place where this seems completely acceptable. You can’t walk into a restaurant barefoot or down the street, and you certainly can’t go to work or school barefoot without consequences and judgments. The beach is the one place outdoors where it seems completely natural to have nothing on your feet. Even walking in the grass, you are taking a chance. But, the beach is the moldable sole you never had, providing comfort and support in all the right places. There is something about this lack of restraint that feels effortless and therapeutic. You can be yourself by the ocean.

Things we truly cherish, we try to take a piece of for memories. We don’t want to forget that place and how we felt during that trip or experience. For the beach, the perfect souvenir is a seashell. With the lack of people on the beach, I realized I could probably find some collectible shells that would be nice additions to the decorations in the beach house. I could bring my solace indoors. I forced myself to walk into the path of the freezing waves as they hit the shore, asserting myself that after a few minutes I’d no longer feel them rising and falling against my feet. After trudging for a few minutes in the waves and not seeing anything, I began to stop looking. Instead, I shuffled the sand with my toes as I moved, searching for the forlorn shell. Of course, even when the beach was deserted, I wasn’t going to find one.

Just as I was about to give up hope and get out of the water, I spotted something big, brown, and spiny about five feet in front of me. I quickly jogged towards it so it did not get washed away to sea. As I neared my target, I realized it was a perfect, rounded starfish and I gently lifted it from the sand. I had not found a starfish in nature before and it was fascinating to see an unbleached non-store bought version of the sea creature. It was the biggest starfish I had ever seen and I held it up into the sunlight, admiring its organic beauty, and rotating it’s thick limbs in every direction. It had all five arms and they were in the ideal position of symmetry. It was no longer moving, so I felt okay keeping it. It was my reward for walking alone for such a far distance. I could look at the starfish later, and remember the day when I found it on my own.
I carefully cradled starfish in the palm of my left hand, still dangling my shoes from their laces in my right. I could not wait to go home now and place the sea creature amongst our beach house collection of shells and sand dollars in a wicker tray on a table in the living room.

Was it truly possible to bring the healing powers of the sea indoors? Would I be able to touch the starfish while sitting on my couch and feel my feet on the sand? It’s like cutting off fresh peonies for display in a glass vase on your kitchen table. They are still beautiful, but are even more so when still surrounded by their long leafy green arms. As, I walked I looked down at the starfish to make sure was still there. It was not enough just to feel it in my palm. I gazed at it resting on my outstretched hand and began to worry as I felt the starfish drying out. As I walked with it against the wind, it was hurrying the evaporation process. It was no longer strong, damp, and spongy but felt light and stiff and thus, more and more fragile.
I thought that the quicker I reached home, the safer my starfish would be. But as I trudged forward through the white sand and quickened my pace into a soft jog, I also tensed my muscles. It was hard to fight the wind and adjust to the varying elevations of the beach against my bare feet. The faster I moved eager to get home, the more I tensed my muscles for additional power. I didn’t even realize my left hand was clenched around the starfish until I heard something plop against the wet sand. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around to walk a few steps back, holding my breath. One of the arms of my starfish had completely cracked off and was indeed resting sideways on the beach. I lifted my fingers out from in between the limbs of the starfish to assess the damage. Yes, my five-limbed starfish was now disfigured to four. I had made it this far and now it was broken. How could I take the beach relic home? Now it would just remind me of the time I ruined the perfect starfish and not of my wonderful walk.

I tried to put it down back on the sand, but I didn’t get two steps before I picked it up again. Would I regret leaving it? And, what exactly was I leaving? I knew I was being ridiculous, but since it’s discovery, I had grown an attachment to the starfish. It was “mine.” I had claimed it as my prize and I had been excited to show it off as my beach relic. I compromised and decided to leave the broken limb on the beach to be washed away with the bits and pieces of shells. The arm just reminded me of its vanished perfection.

Almost to my beach path, I looked at the starfish in my hand. I just couldn’t appreciate it anymore. Gazing at it made me feel responsible for breaking it, for its disfigurement and destruction and I felt it devalued the perfection of my walk. I finally decided to place it on the shore, not too far from the water, but far enough so it did not get swept into the tides right away. I wouldn’t have to see it go back into the sea.

It is as if I buried it in a sense and with it the idea that this creature could bring the same joy to me as a walk on the beach. I was wrong in believing that I needed this object to remember and to serve as “proof” of my walk. Were my refreshed spirit and the newly smoothed bottoms of my feet not enough? You don’t need a relic for meditation, people can pray without a rosary. The movement was the valuable experience, not the act of finding. Paths can lead you to unexpected things and places, but its what you make of your experiences that help to dictate your next step. What we take and what we leave along the way is going to also shape and affect the paths of those around us and behind us. I had left my starfish.

As I began walking again, setting my pace, I closed my eyes for a moment and envisioned a small child, or elderly person, would find the starfish walking the beach later that afternoon. Maybe that individual would stumble upon it as I did, pick it up, and feel they had found the equivalence of pirate’s treasure. When that being discovered the starfish, they would believe their feet led them to it. At that particular moment, they were meant to stumble upon the delicate creature. The starfish had chosen them. The lucky person will not think its limb is missing due to drying out after being stripped from its native habitat. Instead, they will suppose its arm was lost out at sea, naturally.

[Sarah Ludwig]

great memoir...it makes me want to be at the beach right now

[iwishiwasthere]

Beautiful writing! May I copy and share with others? Your writing takes me to a place I love to be...so many wonderful memories.

[Mermaid]

Beach Bella, this barefoot sand walker thinks you have a lovely way with words. You've captured the essence of being on the beach so well.