The Seasons of Oneself

There were only two important things in my life last summer. It almost seems silly now that I was so concerned with something that others thought so small, so tiny. But it was so much bigger than that. My whole entire life was in my writing, in the journal that I brought with me everywhere I went. The tiny, little black notebook that held my deepest thoughts.

What was the other important thing at the time? It was the ocean. I spent an entire summer on the beach, at the shores of Nantucket. I wanted to be in the water, I wanted to feel the waves crash against my sun kissed skin. This was when my best writing came out. When I was at my happiest, I would take a break and write. I wrote all summer long and by the end of that warm and hopeful August I had the little black notebook completely filled with my stories, poems and thoughts.

Until it was gone.

During my last trip to the water, I was less concerned about the pages that I had already filled and in turn, I didn’t recognize anyone near my belongings. I knew the notebook was in my bag, it should have been right on the towel, right where I always kept it. Until it wasn’t, until it was gone. Maybe I had dropped it along my route that day? I just did not know.

My world fell apart for a few months after that. I wasn’t writing anymore. I didn’t want to talk to my friends, or go to the ocean. In all aspects of my life, I gave up. Then Summer turned to Autumn, then to the dim, icy Winter that I could not thaw out of.

Until I saw something on a foggy spring evening a few months ago that brought me back to life. As I walked past my old route to the beach, I saw my words. Quotes I came up with, poems I invested my mind into creating and stories from my once inspired soul.

“In search of Darla Hampton” read a poster on a telephone pole near the very beach I lost my world almost one year ago. Underneath were the excerpts of my writing. Someone had found my notebook and they were looking for me, they wanted to return me to life.

A glimmer of hope flashed across my face, but I was hesitant. I looked down at the telephone number and wondered what was happening, how could this be possible?

“East Coast Publishing Company, how may I direct your call?” a happy voice greeted me.

I gulped.

“This may sound crazy,” I began, “ but my name is Darla Hampton, and I think someone found my little black notebook.”

The speaker on the other end did not sound surprised, as if she had heard that before. Would they believe me or would I have to prove that I am the author of the writings on the poster. I was prepared to do so, I did not want this new light ignited in me to be fanned back out.

“Simple summer sunlight, washing waves with weathered wind,” I said softly. These were the words below my name on the inside cover of the notebook. Only I could know that.

She then immediately transferred my call to the President of the company who would one day later, surprise me and change my life.

But at what cost?

I walked into the office to meet him and he sat me down to explain everything. He had been watching me that summer and knew exactly who I was. He waited until I was away and took my little black book from me. He stole it. He explained that he was intrigued while watching me and just had to know what was consuming my undivided attention all summer, for months on end.

I grew angry upon hearing this. My whole life changed because of him and I am barely making ends meet, I lost my whole world. I then hastily explained that it was unfair of him to steal my thirst for wisdom and excitement for creation and I began to leave.

“Wait, please,” he called after me, “you wont regret it.”

That’s when he showed me what he had done. He walked me down a hallway where he had a room filled with black notebooks just like mine. Each one was filled with my inspiring words. The words from my last happy moments.

He explained that with my authorization, he was ready to market these books across the country.

“And here this is for you,” he handed me a small envelope as I smiled and looked up at him and then around at the overwhelming product of my creation.

“Now that you found us,” he began, “we want to give you this advancement.”

I opened the envelope to see a $20,000 check with my name on it. Now as Summer nears its end once more, I have found that this unexpected sum of money would only just be the beginning, but was not all my sense of self yearned for.