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| Gluten-free blueberry flax muffins- totally our new fave. |
Seven years ago we left Cape Cod for our gypsy adventure. We sold the sofa, kitchen table, and boxes of cookbooks. We recycled toys and jeans and an old PC. The open road was calling. And we listened.
The western sky hung big and blue above the high desert arroyos of New Mexico. It felt as deep and wide as an ocean. We thought this signaled home. But I missed the sea more than I ever could have guessed. So we moved to Los Angeles and tried on four different neighborhoods in as many years. I grew adept at packing and shedding and shelved my books by color. I luxuriated in each and every hour spent with my two grown sons. A gift, each shared coffee date. Movie night. Christmas dinner.
But Los Angeles was never my home. Its culture felt as walled off to me as the adobe and iron gates in Santa Fe. I felt invisible. And irrelevant. And undernourished. My feminine soul was starving.
And so I turned my gaze East again. It somehow felt right. And I found us a temporary nest, an antique barn studio in a post card worthy Connecticut village where I had lived as a child. Here, I paint. I write. I bake blueberry muffins. I listen to rivers curving through woods. I inhale the fog. It smells like pine. It is quiet here. And the pace is more to my liking.
But it is not by the sea. I cannot walk the flats at low tide. I have no place to hang sheets in the ocean breeze.
The Cape is calling.
Like the long and winding road that tugged me West, the tidal rhythms of living on the Cape are infusing my dreams with the colors of sea glass and bayside creeks. There is sand in my boots from our trip last week and I cannot bring myself to shake it out.
If you are a fortune teller, adept at reading signs, speak now or forever hold your peace.
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