For the boats still out
Gale warning for sea area Plymouth tonight, and three of the harbour boats still out past the Lizard. The whole village does the same thing on nights like this: checks the forecast forty times and pretends not to.
I put Gran's old storm lantern in the window (battery-powered now, I'm not daft), set a dish of salt on the sill, and said what she always said:
Mother of the deep water,
hold them light as gulls,
put the wind at their backs
and the harbour lights before them,
and bring them home before the tide turns twice.
Two came in by ten. The third rang in from Newlyn at midnight, safe and sheltering. I slept like a stone.
Dime in the shoe, psalm on the porch
Our niece Tanya drove up to Atlanta for nursing school this week, her first time living away from home. Before she left I sent her off the way my uncle sent me: an old silver Mercury dime in her left shoe, the 91st Psalm read over her on the front porch, and a little red flannel bag in the glovebox with salt, a bay leaf and a picture of her grandmama.
She asked if the dime actually does anything. I told her it reminds her she's got people praying behind her. That's what it does.
She texted me last night: "Made it. Shoe's uncomfortable." Good. Means she's still wearing it.
Blessing the new shop door
The old shop door finally gave up after thirty years of desert wind, so the new one got a proper welcome before we opened this morning. I swept the threshold outward, wiped the frame down with salt water, and tucked a small piece of black tourmaline into the hollow above the latch where only I know it is.
Then I stood in the doorway and said out loud what I want this door to do: let in the curious, the grieving, the kids who just want to touch the shiny rocks, and anyone who needs ten quiet minutes. Keep out the rest.
I won't tell you the stone "protects" anything. I'll tell you I feel different walking through that door now. That's enough for me.