Sand

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Years ago, during a wet, cold winter walk along the coast, my chilly cheeks were sandblasted by the swirling grains. It felt sharp, hard and abrasive — sand can be like that. Back home, I shook the sand from my winter clothes and shoes in the hallway. There it lay: the little bit of sand that had travelled along, soft and grainy, lost. A small mound of sand, or dunes, or beach…

When does something stop being what it was?
Or is the real question: when does it begin to be?

In the case of sand, I still find that difficult… A grain, a small mound, a dune, a beach. It’s about location, but also about volume and origin. Perhaps sand remains part of the beach as long as the grains remember where they came from… Or does the identity of the grains lie in the perception of the person experiencing them?

I still don’t know. But what I do know is that back then, I didn’t want the dune sand to disappear into the vacuum cleaner. So I gathered it up with a dustpan and brush and let it drift away outside. Hard and sharp, in search of that salty coast. Or a place somewhere between the paving stones in the city… Or an unsuspecting eye: part of the beach becomes an irritation. Tears as a protective reflex, although they also fit the image of a wandering grain of sand searching for the sea. A grain of beach sand that ends up in someone’s eye would, at the very least, find a moment of saltiness there.

Over the past three years, I have seen very little of our coast, even though I live so close. But sometimes even nearby can be out of reach. Out of reach in only one direction. The wind from the dunes and the sounds of summer by the sea still found me. I missed. And summer — life carrying on — reminded me what I missed.

For three years, my feelings drifted back and forth: between missing and longing. Between remembering and daydreaming. Between grief and gratitude. I even felt a little jealousy, but then again, the ability to find joy in what others could still experience. And in the last few weeks, something new appeared: planning.

The weather forecast predicted a heatwave, for days; I prepared myself, also for days. A simple plan, step by step, with moments to stop and check. Just to see if it would work.

And it worked. Cycling to the dunes, walking to the dune lake, swimming. Wonderful, and refreshing. Water that enveloped my body like a cooling, liquid second skin. First goosebumps, then calm. I had forgotten what it felt like, what it could also feel like — summer, being weightless and floating. My salty tears mingled with that sweet water. And this time, no irritating grain of sand had found its way into my eye. What I felt was gratitude, release, and also a little grief.

Spending sunny days at home in the dark, with closed curtains, like a little lizard under a rock, feels different since that first swim. The summer mornings, among people, birds, and insects, colour the rest of the day. A whole day at the beach turns out not to be necessary. Because time does not exist in those moments of sand, fresh and salt water. Five minutes of floating is enough.

For a whole week, I live in a house full of sand. Not one small mound, but grains everywhere.

Everywhere.

Because I have to manage my energy very carefully, especially in the heat, swimming and vacuuming on the same day is not an option yet. Vacuuming little by little is pointless with sand. I do try, but every movement creates another small sandstorm.

Sand never rests. It keeps moving, effortlessly finding every corner of my house. Each visit to the dunes brings more sand with it. It sticks to my skin, hides in the folds of my clothes, clings to my towel. I shake out my bag, one more time.

The sand crunches under my feet as I walk through my house, every movement a grainy reminder: this sand is from the dunes, I was there, I swam.

Sand, sand, sand. Everywhere. I just let it be.

Dozing in my bed in the evening, half under the covers — it is warm, but I cannot sleep without being a little covered — I wonder: when was the last time I lay like this? In a house full of sand, warm and drowsy, with the memory of that cool water still flowing softly through my body.

It feels like childhood, maybe my teenage years. But in any case, it is a drifting, sweet-and-salty memory. Warm, safe and carefree.

The heatwave over, I decide to clean up the sand. I run my hands over every surface, searching by touch for the grains left behind. Three years ago, it felt as though my life was slipping through my fingers like loose sand. But sand cannot be forced into a single shape. At least not for long. And so I use the vacuum cleaner, going over every inch of my house. Until it no longer crackles and grates. Only temporarily, because the next warm day I want to swim again, with all the sandy consequences that come with it.

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✶ Series:
New(found) joy – small moments of rediscovery in ways that fit the present.

✦ Images from the precious matters personal collection, now part of this growing archive. A lifetime of small moments, gathered with care: fragments of a soft universe in the making.

✧ Originally written in Dutch by Merel Slootheer. Translated with care and intuition by Blackbird Ditchlord.