The Saturday Journal: Rebloom

tathelmillerwriter
24 hours ago
5 min read

I heard this word the other day--"Rebloom" and yes, I guess when we think about blooms our minds and imaginations turn to flowers and the reblooming of perennials making their way out of the ground--reblooming year after year.

However, on this occasion in this particular text the word “rebloom” was used not in the context of flowers, but with people. The reblooming of one's soul--mindset--creativity--change--a rebirth you might say.

I recently visited one of my favorite places on the North Carolina coast with my favorite son (only son) and his family. After arriving, we got all settled in for the week–had a great dinner at one of the local restaurants and soon it was ready for bed. But before falling asleep I did something I do every night while at the beach–I check my weather app–sunrise tomorrow–6:03 am.

My alarm–set.

And on that morning I was up–bright and early along with a few other early risers–waiting to see the sunrise. Now I don’t know the number of times I've done this–rising early–watching the sun come up–watching it lift slowly out of the ocean--it seems–like the great pumpkin rising up out of the pumpkin patch on Halloween night–yes, I do love Charlie Brown and Snoopy.

I’ve actually had people ask–'why do you keep doing that–getting up early–on vacation, of all things! Once you’ve seen one sunrise while sitting on the shore–you’ve seen them all.'

I beg to differ–that is simply not true.

And on that first morning I walked in my solitude for the longest time–in wonder–in reverence.

Later that morning–my youngest granddaughter–after she found out where I’d been, seeing the sunrise–she cried. She had wanted to go with me. So I made a promise to her–we’ll go in the morning.

‘I can get up that early’, she said–her tears drying on her face.

But sadly, the next morning more tears came–the skies were cloudy and the sun–only the light could be seen from a distance. And I made another promise–one I hoped I would keep before the week was up.

There was this dove–she came flying up to the deck–her orange feet gripping the railing. I don’t ever recall seeing a dove at the beach–lots of pelicans and sea gulls–but there she was. Good morning to you little one, I greeted her. She looked at me–blinked her eyes as if to say, good morning to you too, and then she flew away.

While on the beach on another day, I noticed a small black umbrella anchored to what looked like a tripod. 'Wonder what that is? An unusual site on the beach–one I haven’t seen before. I bet it’s a tripod and she’s making a video of the ocean waves', I said to my son.

Or at least that’s what I assumed.

I was curious–I wanted to see–if only at a distance–so I walked toward the tripod. And the closer I got–the more I was drawn even more–I had to see. And turns out, it wasn't a tripod at all--but an easel with a canvas and on the canvas was a painting of the ocean--not quite finished–colors of blues and teals and greens and whites and turquoise. Her paint pallet was near and this lady with a brush in her hand--she was just before adding a stroke of white and she turned and smiled at me.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you–but that is beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone paint while at the beach.”

And we talked more--she doesn’t call herself an artist–I learned she's a professional photographer. Mostly portraits. And her paintings–she doesn’t sell them–not yet, anyway–maybe in the future.

I saw her again the next day–I didn’t get close though–I didn’t want to disturb her peace–her work, but I could see from a distance–another canvas and this time–she was creating a portrait of a loved one sitting close by.

My granddaughter–she was all giggles-–wide awake—still in her pajamas. I grabbed my camera and a towel. And then out the door we went–hand-in-hand walking across the walkway from our house to the beach and as soon as we topped the dunes–her first word was, “Wow!”

She’d never seen the beach this empty–this still.

We made our way to a nice spot–laid our towel down–she wanted to get her feet in the warm ocean water–she kicked her toes in the water–laughing–smiling–giggling. And when it got closer to the time of the sunrise–we sat down on our towel.

I listened--watched her as she took it all in...

“What’s that blue stuff behind the ocean?”

“I see lots of colors!”

“The waves are so calm!”

“Look at the crab holes! Those are girl crab holes!”

“Why are my feet sinking in the sand?’

“How is sand made?”

I answered all her questions the best I could.

And then it happened…..our first glimpse—

“Look! She yelled and pointed toward the pier–toward the eastern sky. She jumped up–twirled--her arms dancing--smiling...

“It looks so big, Granna!”

“Why is it orange instead of yellow?”

And we lingered for a little while longer watching the sun rise and then we made our way back to our house–on that very special early morning.

The dove–she came back for a visit a few days later–I was sitting alone on the deck–reading. She had something in her mouth and she dropped it close to my chair. I asked her, did you bring me a white seashell?

She stayed for a moment or two and then--she flew away–leaving the shell behind.

I reached to pick up the shell–it was still moist–fragile and thin. And I learned quickly it wasn’t a seashell, but part of an egg shell. Perhaps it was a birth announcement of sorts–her way of telling me–my baby just burst out of his egg–I’m a new Mama.

The evening before my granddaughter and I were anxiously awaiting first sunrise–-I had it all planned out in my mind–I imagined she and I would sit close on our beach towel and she would be quiet–in awe of the sun making its first appearance--just for her. I was wrong–she twirled–she shouted–she jumped with a joy only a six-year old could master.

And there was the artist on the beach I met–she was not videoing the ocean waves–as I presumed--she was creating them on canvas.

And the dove–it was not my gift of a seashell, but hers–and she chose to share her gift with me, anyway.

This reblooming I want in my life--I believe one of the things I’m going to work on super hard is "assuming". For in the "assuming" and never taking the time to the "exploring"--the "listening"--the "seeing"--the "doing" I'm missing out on some of the most beautiful of moments this life has to offer--it's like "assuming" the story is told from the cover alone–before even opening the book.

Thank you for your continued kindness in reading The Saturday Journal.

I am grateful for each of you--more than you will ever know.

And I pray, the stories shared in this space will encourage you--

bring a smile or remembrance, and bless you in some small way.

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All stories copyright and owned by the author, Tathel Miller,

photographs copyright and owned by Tathel Miller,

unless otherwise credited to another photographer.

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