On Being Cradled

As you may or may not be able to tell from my last couple of posts, I have been going through all my old journals, reliving memories and wondering if, like the lyrics of a song, things were so much simpler then.

Here, for instance, is a memory from 

August 28, 2002:

There are only a few more days left to summer. It is early morning and I have been sitting on the porch that belongs to the house my daughter and son-in-law have rented in Rodanthe for this, our second trip to the Outer Banks.
  
I few moments ago I closed my eyes to meditate and to watch my thoughts as though they were a train passing by. But it is not always easy to remember to disengage from my thoughts, to breathe deeply, and to connect to the sweet, rhythmic flow of the universe.

Later:

It's raining heavily now and I am inside staring out at a cluster of sea oats which are swaying in the breeze and sitting just to the left of a couple of tombstones. Apparently, this island was settled by two families whose grave sites are scattered here and there along the entire length of the island.

Every once in a while the house, which is only a couple of yards from the ocean and "up on stilts," rocks, and I smile every time I feel it move beneath me because it makes me feel as though I am being cradled in the arms of God. 

My memoir, Dear Elvis, is available at amzn.to/2uPSFtE