Years pass, many years and many things change in the world and in my tiny universe too, but what has always remained the same lure, the same enticing strand that keeps pulling me back, is the light of the Hamptons. I’ve come to rely on the Hamptons as a place of inner retreat. I have been a frequent visitor since I was ten years old, that’s now 38 years. It’s longer than any place I’ve ever known and I’ve therefore watched it change over the years.
I remember when the dawn would break and I would look outside and for miles I could see fields, wide open fields, the potato fields of the south fork. The sky, filling with colors, like a painters palette. Painted in a water color world of blues, light pinks, subtle yellows. I used to be able to see the edge of the ocean, ever so slightly from Down’s Path in Southhampton where my parents reside. This is where, I remain a welcomed visitor and guest.
Over time, as all know, very large houses and tall hedges have overtaken the landscape in Southhampton. It takes a lot longer in the morning to see the sunrise and the full moon rise. We used to run from the kitchen, in the early evening, run out like children chasing after the ice cream truck, to see the huge white summer moon rising over the horizon line. We don’t get to see it until it’s high in the sky now, our neighbor’s trees towering over our yard, some thirty feet into the air.
Times at Flying Point Beach, where I collect rocks and sink my bare feet into the sand, and watch the waves countless lap after lap are always precious to me. The time at the beach reminds me that I am mortal. I’ve walked every season on the sands of the beaches. In below zero temperatures to the summer heat waves of August. I collect the small rocks, put them in my pockets and keep them as reminders that I am grounded when I visit out east. So many worries in life wash away, sometimes for just an hour, sometimes for days if I permit myself to really unwind.
....wrote an entire book on the magic light, the golden hue of twilight. It is true, just before sunset, the entire ocean is painted in gold. One turn to the west from Flying Point Beach and the marshes, the pine needles, the single heron flying overhead are painted in gold too. Dripping in the golden light that last only a moment. The white of the waves breaking on the beach turn into a pure white, reminding me of fresh whipped cream. The horizon of the ocean, ever beckoning, always humbling me. I will not live forever, no one will.
I think to myself, when I’m gone, I would like my children to take my ashes and ceremoniously throw them out to sea, out to the horizon of the Atlantic ocean at Flying Point Beach. I have danced in these waves for so many years. I’ve watched a ninety-five year old woman escorted to the ocean’s edge. So sure am I of her delight in the lifetime of memories of the waves greeting her feet.