Shedding Our Heavy Coats

On the first day of spring, I stood at our back door and noted the curtain of fabric bulging from the wall-mounted coat rack in our kitchen. This solid fortress of extra clothing exposed winter’s fierce and unpredictable temperament. 

The wall was overflowing with coats for every option of weather, for each member of our family. It held my black down coat for the coldest days, Jamie’s rain jacket, a hooded winter coat for both boys, a fleece jacket for me, a fleece jacket for Jamie, Jackson’s hunter green hoodie, a lightweight coat for Parker, and quite a few more. So many, many coats.  

My eyes had grown tired of looking upon this jumbled mess, and I decided the excess of scarves and hats and coats was no longer needed. After all, spring had officially arrived.

I lifted each winter coat off its metal hanger and draped it over my left forearm, where the heaping stack grew and grew and grew. Then I delivered them to a bedroom closet for safekeeping until next winter.  

When I returned to the kitchen I glanced in the corner and noticed the newfound space unveiled. The hangers were no longer overburdened with layers of fabric. A lightness had returned and I sensed the space could once again breathe easy.

I had felt the same lightness earlier that morning when I awoke to the sound of little boys squealing with laughter. The feeling persisted as Parker chased rowdy birds and squirrels on the front lawn before preschool. No coats were needed as we raced out the door and climbed into our champagne minivan. Jackson pleaded with me to crank up Justin Timberlake’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling” so that not a soul we passed on the road could possibly doubt all the sunshine in his pocket.  

Lightness was riding proudly through the spring air and nestled in the empty spaces around my coat rack. It was pulsing out our van windows and soaring within me. Where had it come from?

In short, everywhere.  

It is in the collective blooms of lavender phlox and in three-year-olds who utter “Mama” every sixth word they speak. It is there as we eat peanut butter sandwiches on the front porch and in the vibrant trills and calls of birds just before daybreak. It is in music and motion and the sun as it warms my aging skin. It is there when I write, when I give a voice to my own truths. It is there as our heaviest coats fall away, as our shoulders and our hearts are set free from the weight they have carried. 

Farewell long winter!
Farewell heavy, heavy coats!

Spring is calling us forth.  

Ocean Treasures

Both Jackson and Parker shed their shoes and socks by a wooden staircase connecting our hotel to the ocean. Then, two barefoot boys race toward the rolling waves. They bound across soft fine sand, tiptoe over a narrow layer of coarse broken shells, and finally sink into the cold wet sand by the sea. The wind upends their golden hair as the orange sun sinks lower in the horizon.  

Neither boy has any memory of the ocean. Parker has not ventured to the seaside until now, and Jackson is far too young to recall the days he spent on the shore as an infant, feasting on fistfuls of wet sand.

A stranger approaches Parker and kindly gives him a plastic baggie to collect shells and other treasures. He scours the landscape with gusto, placing any shell that strikes his fancy into the bag – cockle shells, fragments of grey and white and deep purple, some showcasing tiny holes throughout, large and sturdy chunks, some that are thin and delicate.

Next, pant legs are rolled up, exposing knobby knees as the boys walk out into the frigid water. They stomp and splash and dance in circles. A wave crashes and they jump the layer of sprawling water as it glides toward us. 

I now know there is no saving a boy’s pants once he walks into the ocean. First the cuffs grow wet, and with each passing wave, the water creeps upward through the darkening fabric. Eventually, fleeing an extra large wave, they kick copious amounts of water through the air and find their pants completely drenched. They don’t seem to mind. 

I smile as I watch their elation before the vast Atlantic. I call to them, “Come back this way, boys! You’re out too far!” Sometimes they listen and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes, I wade out into the water to retrieve a stubborn three-year-old.  

Eventually, Parker jumps a wave and loses his balance. He topples into the ocean fully clothed; only his head remains dry. I run toward him and pull him back up to his feet. His face is both surprised and joyful. He stands tall in the receding water, more resolved than ever to jump the next wave.  

Then, two ladies walking along the shore holler to me, “Your shoe! Your shoe!” I turn around to see my running shoe riding out to sea as the ocean retreats. I bolt toward it, soaking the bottom of my pants as I retrieve the wayward shoe. I have now joined the ranks of those wearing wet clothes in the ocean and decide I’m in excellent company. The good in life resides right here in the water, in the waves, in the action, as two little boys must already know.  

Eventually, the boys bid farewell to the ocean through chattering teeth. Their clothes are soaked with salt water and sand clings to the sides of their reddened feet. Slowly, they wander back toward the staircase, toting the baggie full of treasures they’ve found along the shoreline.   

My own hands rest empty at my side as I shuffle along behind two shivering forms. Yet, I am certain that I, too, now carry the treasures of the ocean with me.