Cerulean

Cerulean

is the Pacific Ocean.

It is long drives down the 210

to the Pacific Coastal

Highway. It is singing

"I Want To Be Sedated"

by the Ramones - after drinking

an extra large coffee, and watching

my daughter try to control my playful - childlike

outbursts - to no avail. It is driving towards a cliff

overlooking the sea - where the eye cannot

immediately separate the sky from the water.

It is walking beach state park trails and

taking pictures of yellow wild flowers. And,

not thinking about time in minutes, or seconds, or hours.

Cerulean is the sea and the truck's tire stuck in the sand as the tide comes in.

It is surfers and bystanders coming together to move the truck before the tide comes - and the current has its way.

It is clapping and high fiving in triumph and camaraderie as the truck drives up the voluptuous California hillside - away from the waves.

It is my daughter blowing bubbles and running around on the wet sand like freedom is pulling her in all directions. And she can't quite pick any which way to go.

It is fish tacos at the promenade across from the beach. It is pizza. It is Chai tea. It is humming birds whisping through my daughter's fly aways.

It is watching hermit crabs in tide pools. It is being yelled at by seagulls. It is yelling at seagulls. It is glittery toe nails flirting with currents almost too strong to tempt.

It is pictures of yachts. It is pictures of my daughter sitting on rocks like a mermaid. It is reminding her that nature is not ruled by emotion. Reminding her that Cerulean could swallow her whole.

It is the smell of salt air. It is rinsing off before the long ride home and still being covered in sand. It is my sweet, sweet daughter asleep in the backseat.

Cerulean is where I go to find myself. It is a reminder that while there are no perfect days - there are days that are completely, magnificently imperfect - that belie the very idea of perfection. Cerulean is what I wrap myself in on the bad days.

Cerulean is where I have to be called back from. Somewhere beyond Cerulean I hear my name - as if it is gently blowing across the clouds on the horizon. Suddenly, I am back on my therapist's dark, blue couch, and she is telling me that she is proud of the work I am doing on myself - proud that one of my coping mechanisms is Cerulean.