Each morning the dogs and I step lightly when we cross the memorial pathway leading to the beach.  Walkway or not, to me it is a sacred place and the three of us stretch left and right and forward like children playing an awkward, slow-motion hopscotch.  Selah, still learning this tender pace, does more of a leap, slide, and pounce. But it occurs to me that she could very well be playing with little souls, so I lighten my hold and let it be.

I woke up today feeling like a novice at life. In my dream a man asked: “How long have you been who you are?” I was terrified and oddly embarrassed and I barely knew what to say because there, in my dream, I was not sure if this was my first attempt at being or if I’m still waiting to begin. I answered: “Not long enough to be perfect at it.”

Still restless and drowsy from the dream, I was arguing with fear when a bit of rising sun sparkled off a memorial stone. We all stopped.  Selah dropped, Spike sat and I read:

 6/24/1968 ‘—‘ 2/1/2011.

For Sam. Loving husband, father, and son.

He lived his dash.

I don’t think any of us have time to waste not “living our dash” because we are afraid we won’t be perfect at it.