Sea Shell Stage, Hampton Beach, N.H. I wish I could remember the song that was playing. I’ll have to go through my journals, find the name of it, and write another post to tell you what it was.
For now though, I was there one summer evening with three of our kids; the twins almost 4 and our son nearly 7. It had been a rough year for us as a family. We had suffered some losses and even going on vacation briefly seemed impossible. A bit of sadness surrounded us but we were doing our best each day to shine through it. Like other nights, we went to amphitheater for their live music and to wear down the kids a bit before bed. We adults often do not dance at things like this. We think everyone is watching us when they’re not, or how stupid we look dancing, when no one cares. Kids though? It’s music. It’s loud. They need to move! So we danced our hearts out together, my husband and I and our little nutcases.
Lights from the stage lit the dance area. Folding chairs and families surrounded us. The smell of fried dough filled the air. Song after song as temperatures dropped and the ocean breeze came in, we danced. We weren’t cold. We were too busy moving. Finally, a slow song came on. Normally we’d all sit out for it. This time though, we took each other’s tiny hands and just swayed to the music in a circle. We looked at the stars. Sang along with what words we knew; made up what we didn’t. Just living in the moment. As I looked around, I locked eyes with this mom. Without hesitation, I asked her if she wanted to join us. (I didn’t do the inner debate, will she say no, or think I’m stupid for asking, and all that we put ourselves through from time to time.) She immediately said yes and brought her own young son to join us. So there we were, making the most of the night, swaying back and forth with this woman we didn’t know and would never see again, my kids, her kid, my husband. All of us holding hands, enjoying the music, the night, the simple connection that is life. Moments like this are life. Just life. For three and a half minutes, I didn’t think about our suffering as those spaces were filled. This has always been one of my happiest memories. She may have joined the five of us, but the two of them meant so much to me.
Our path is lit by all who cross it. Those who kicked us along the way kept us going, rethinking, recreating. Those who held our hand, thank you. All are a blessing.
