On not skipping stones

It is a year of extremes. Tucked into this year of extremes is a summer of extremes.

Two days ago, I sat on a low, damp rock, surveying the moody, misty Atlantic at dusk. Iceland felt closer than usual, and for that, I was grateful.

Just a few weeks ago, I sat on a driftwood log out West, in Washington State, looking at the waves off the coast of the Olympic Peninsula. How about that.

This is lucky, I think, to see two sides of one continent in one summer. It must be lucky. Maybe there is some luck left in the world, a little bit of luck I’m allowed to tuck into my own pocket and walk off with.

Both coasts have strange wishing stones littering the beaches — gray stones with white rings circling their fat rock bellies and stubby rock necks. I thought these stones were solely the property of Washington State. Not true, it seems, not true.

The ringed stones are purely for wishes, not for skipping. I look for flat ones for this. I am new to stone-skipping; so new, I have not yet managed to skip even one across the surface of the calm tide creeping in. Every stone I fling or flick — no matter how flat its shape, how perfect for skipping — plops heavily into the water.

If I threw myself into the water, I would plop too. I know. There is nothing light about my demeanor right now, although I manage to fake it, to get around and to get by.

It would be nice to skate just one stone, to flick my wrist just so and watch a normally earthbound rock skim the water before sinking. I would like to learn to release gracefully. Skipping stones seems good practice for that.

Today it is cold and rainy. I woke up to a thick Maine fog outside my window, which, post-oatmeal, has subsided to a mist just down by the water.

I don’t know what time it is, or how long it took the fog to sink from its peeping Tom stance outside the window back down to the waves. I only measure the hours in mosquito bites and how much scratching I do. I scratch them until they bleed and settle down for a while. It is satisfying: a specific itch I can provide with a specific scratch.

I have too many vague itches clamoring for attention, and nothing specific to offer them. My mind is too muddled, too murky, and the fog inside it refuses to recede.

The girls are not with me this time. So it doesn’t matter what time I wake up, what I eat, what time I go to bed. I send emails to them: Hi, sweeties! I saw two eagles! And a fat red fox that looks like Nina!

Hattie Belle, with the help of her dad, emails photos of herself doing a ballet routine. Sophie is too busy to write; she’s onto the third Harry Potter. No matter. We can all use a break from each other, some time to dance, to read, to learn to skip stones.

I don’t know what today will bring. More scratching, more beachcombing, maybe another try at stone-skipping. Maybe a nap. No one here will mind.

If I take a walk, I need to remember to look up. I’ve had my head down, focused on the stones underfoot, looking for the perfect rock to send sailing across the water. But I am missing some of the scenery, I know. I know.