Opinion: Sweet dreams are made of this


Friends, I am sitting on the screened-in porch of a second-floor condo overlooking a large bay of water, name unknown, somewhere near Fort Myers, Fla. And no, I’m not dreaming.

My husband Doo and I had planned this fall break trip way back in January, wanting to take advantage of his company’s rental place in Florida and my school district’s week off in October. Of course, we’d organized several vacations for 2020, all of which were canceled due to the apocalypse. But we were determined to salvage at least one slice of heaven and decided to drive the 16-plus hours to finally gain a little rest and relaxation in this dumpster of a year.

We arrived last night. I awoke at 4:30 a.m., having already slept nine hours, then went back to sleep for another two. The sun is just now rising, and the only sounds are birdsong and the gentle lapping of waves. I am alone, as Doo is still in bed, but have a hot cup of coffee and phone Sudoku to keep me company. Alhough the temperature is already in the mid-80s, with equally high humidity, I feel content in a way that I haven’t since spring. I’m finding it easy to block thoughts of the election and COVID-19 and almost as easy to recall memories of my dad, who passed away in September. There is less pain there.

Is it the ocean healing my heart? The quiet morning? Maybe the hope inspired by these next few days of downtime in a semi-tropical rental? Does it matter?

If I am dreaming, please don’t pinch me. This one’s too good.

Peace out.

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