Presto Salto

There has to be something magical about salt air. I go to the beach, filled with stress and I go back home relaxed and renewed. Maybe the salt draws out the negativity that gets stuck in our muscle fibers. Or maybe it is the fact that when we go to the beach we sit out in the sun, watching the waves, reading books, or napping. It seems like Americans need to go someplace meant for relaxing in order to relax. I know when I take a week off and try to relax at home, the dog hair and the dishes and the bills get in the way. I don't usually give myself permission to just lie there, on a blanket, book in hand, rolling over every 20 minutes or so. I see what needs to be done,  feel guilty when it is not done and end up just as stressed as when I was working. You can't do that at the beach. Nothing really needs to be done. The ocean cleans the sand, the post person cannot find you to deliver your credit card statement and sometimes even, there is no cell service or high speed internet to get you working. Today I head to the beach. I  have much to do, magazines to read, a journal to write in, book club book to finish. Here I go again. Maybe I could bring the dirty dishes with me.