Thoughts from a Midwestern transplant in Flo-rida

When it doubt, head to the Gulf of Mexico and listen to the waves.

Florida — and really any tropical location — used to seem like another planet to me. 

The idea of white, sandy beaches and snow-less, sunny winters was too foreign for my Northern brain to wrap my head around. It just didn't make sense. How could you live somewhere that never offered the delight of a warming cup of hot chocolate after a long day of snow exploration? How could you live in a place where you would never hear the satisfying *crunch* of a crisp autumn leaf as your shiny black boot squished it into the changing earth beneath you?

I didn't "get it" until now.

Last Sunday I sat on the beach under a late-afternoon sun, half shaded by a striped drugstore umbrella that had been taken by the wind twice in the past hour, and I buried my feet in the softest sand I'd ever touched. As I continued to use my feet as a human shovel in order to seek refuge from the July heat, I watched a little boy run into the ocean and greet it like an old friend. He sprinted towards the waves in full-force, sandcastle tools in hand, and let the water embrace him in a way I've only been embraced by people whom I truly love. He soon began a thorough inspection of the wet sand causing his little feet to sink into the shore, and soon he found his treasure: a small shell that he proudly thrusted high in the air so all the world could see, beaming with pride as his parents yelled muffled calls of "good job!" 

Life is pretty good with a private path to the beach.

The ocean is one of the few things on Earth that will always offer joy. And not just any joy; joy in its most simplistic form. The hard shell of a crustacean waiting to be discovered between gaps in the white-frothed tide; the graceful movement of an afternoon wave and its welcoming embrace; a warm watercolor painting-sunset blurring the line between the end of the water and the beginning of the sky...these simple joys will always be offered.

These simple joys will always be here, in beach towns like this, for as long as we live (if we don't completely kill the environment, that is. Global warming is a thing). Beaches are the watering holes of the non-Saharan world. You see all kinds of people in all kinds of shapes and sizes and hues. It doesn't matter where they come from. It doesn't matter how much money they have. It doesn't matter if they're locals or tourists or somewhere in between like me: beach-goers are united in their quest for peace and joy in a place that helps them forget what they were worrying about on the car ride over. 

There's something about the melodic rush of a wave hitting the shore that forces you to move at a slower pace. It's not that extraordinary — it's just water hitting sand —but then again, maybe it's the simplistic beauty and unifying potential of the act that makes it so remarkable. 

I'm fairly convinced that a beautiful Florida sunset in the only 100% effective short-term cure for new-job anxiety.