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pieces of me



We went away for the weekend; a quick getaway stolen to breathe. Stolen to rest. Stolen to connect, with each other, maybe with random encounters.


The sea was stormy, but we could walk on the beach without being soaked or blown away. Experiencing the power of the waves, noticing stones and debris, some quite large, tossed like one would toss Pick-up Stix. Sunny beach days are glorious, but for me, there’s a special appeal in the moodiness of a storm.


Our paths crossed with vendors and servers and other visitors such as ourselves. Two encounters were different, no actually three.


The initial encounter was with the servers at our first breakfast joint. The guy behind the counter was polite and refined in his jeans, t-shirt and Vans. The restaurant only accepts cash. Who carries much of that anymore? We had some, but needed to pay attention to what we ordered since we weren’t prepared. The gal said, “No worries, it happens all the time. Just stop back and pay us later.” Who says that now days?


Next, was the person running the local surf shop. He had that vibe, which was good since it was his shop. We’d been drawn in by a peace symbol sticker in the window. I’d also snapped a picture of a music gig set for that night that was also in the window. Turns out the guy in the surf shop and the musician were one and the same. We went to listen that night to a cool sorta reggae sound, mellow and alternative. He remembered us and came to chat in between sets. 


The final encounter was when we were gazing at the sea taking photos. A gentleman stopped his car and said the waves are great for photographing, have a nice day. He pulled forward slowly. I told him “thanks” for taking time to talk. This, in turn, opened a door for him to pour out a part of his life story, some good, some very sad.


What occurred to me in all of these instances is that I’d given pieces of me to others. 


Conversely, I’d received pieces of them. This is a concept that I’ve noticed throughout my life. You live in a spot and part of what makes up that spot becomes part of you. Working with a group of people and lives are intricately entwined.


Some pieces are big, others mere specks. Pieces can be given freely or torn. I️ picture it like the pretty montages of schooldays, torn pictures and colored paper arranged and glued to form something art worthy out of scraps and pieces.


I’m grateful for the pieces given, taken, received and shared back and forth. My pieces make me who I am; the good, the questionable, the downright ok and ugly. But, you know, I wouldn’t change it. It’s called living.


Missy


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