clamdiggers

I had these pants when I was little that went just below the knee. They were pink and green floral pattern and I thought they were honestly the coolest. A second-grader with half-pants.

One of the most pure things I’ve seen in Washington has been the little kids that dig for clams on the beach. They sit down real deep and put there heels on their ankles, sticking their arm into the mud and putting their faces damn near inches away from the muck. And they do this little dance with their head where they move it side to side in collaboration with their bouncing booties, very quickly distracted by what they were looking for in the first place. “Mom! A shell!” As though this is the very first time they have picked up a pretty shell on the beach that they live up the hill from. So damn pure.

This scene today was what brought me back in love with Washington. It’s not that I had necessarily fallen out of love with this glory land, it’s more so that I was growing quite uncomfortable in my own skin and that usually results in me turning apathetic towards wonder. I feel as though my childlike eyes have been plucked from my skull, just to find a new home in the dirt where they can see nothing and feel nothing forever. But watching this kids dig for something, anything at a beach wider than the eyes could see, wind whipping salt water and laughter into the air, my child eyes seemed to slowly grow back into my head. And in combination with all my screaming-singing, I slowly became the sunshine girl. All brand new.