Not long ago I came to one of those bleak periods that many of us encounter from time to time, |
But the barren days went by, and the paralysis grew worse. The time came when I knew I had |
"As a child?" I echoed. "Why, at the beach, I suppose. We had a summer cottage there. We all |
He looked out the window and watched the October leaves sifting down. "Are you capable of |
"I think so," I said, ready to try anything. |
"All right. Here's what I want you to do." |
ur prescription blanks, wrote a few words on each, folded them, numbered them, and handed them to |
. I sat in the car, the whole day stretching emptily before me. Then I took out the first of |
or with a sudden clap of sound. "Am I supposed to listen carefully to things like that?" I aske |
| I climbed a dune and looked out over the deserted beach. Here, the sea bellowed so loudly t |
thought suddenly, there must be sounds beneath |
sounds—the soft rasp of drifting sand, the t |
thing seems to pause, wait. In that instant of stillness, the racing thoughts halt. For a mom |
nce the clamorous voices withi |
n. The mind rests. |
. As I listened again to the deep growl of the sea, I found myself thinking about the white-fanged fu |
wareness of the vast and mysterious interdependence of things: wind and tide and current, cal |
g passed slowly. The habit of hurling myself at a problem was so strong that I felt lost without |
re, half amused and half exasperated. Three words this time: TRY REACHING BACK. Back to what? |
thening the outlines. I would choose specific incidents and recapture as many details as possib |
visualize people complete with dress and gestures. I would listen (carefully) for the exact |
laughter. |
re was still thunder in the surf. So I chose |
eyes that far-off morning. In fact, I could see it all: the ivory scimitar of beach where we |
ming in, stately and slow. I c |
ould feel the backwash swirl warm around my knees, see the sudden arc of my brother's r |
od as he struck a fish, hear his exultant yell. Piece by piece I rebuilt it, clear and unchanged unde |
piness, might there not be released little flashes of power, tiny sources of strength? |
aced ourselves for disappointment. Then we heard him say, "No, I won't be down. It'll have to wai |
o the table, Mother smiled. "The circus keeps coming back, you know." |
g relaxed and content—and a little complacent. The doctor's prescriptions, I thought, were ea |
somewhere inside my head, "those motives aren't good enough. Maybe that's the reason the wheel |
ped going around." |
e had always been something spontaneous about i |
t, something uncontrived, something free. Lat |
le, of making a contribution, had been lost in a frantic clutch at security. |
makes no difference whether yo |
u are a mailman, a hairdresser, an insurance salesman, a housewife—whatever. As long as |
you feel you are serving others, you do the job well. When you are concerned only with helping yours |
e the spears of light were almost horizontal. My time at the beach had almost run out, and I |
ime, you blot out present worry when you touch the happiness of the past. |
words on the sand, one above the other. Then I walked away, and I did not look back. I had wr |
the beach. Reader’s Digest. Reprinted by permission of the author. All rights reserved. |