Anchored in the Everyday: Notes from Rockport
Why yes, he would love bacon. He'll eat anything you offer him," said Clark’s human. His weathered face offered a striking contrast to the riotous zinnias and hydrangeas framing the café, their delicate petals seemingly untouched by the harsh seasons that had carved his features.
We sat near each other on this waning summer morning at the Red Skiff. He didn't need to order. The waitress, with her thick Massachusetts accent, simply said, "Mawnin', the usual?"
Oh, how I long to have a usual.
This is my second pilgrimage to Rockport—a town less working-class than its counterpart, Gloucester, but no less stunning.
That morning, I woke to sunlight reflecting off the water and the persistent song of seagulls. I stumbled downstairs, each step creaking, muttering coffee, coffee, coffee. The sliding door stuck the way all New England homes do—weather-worn and stubborn. That first big inhale of the day hurt in the way only salt air can.
I like who I am by the coast. I am slower. Softer. Gentler. More intentional. I move through the days like the lobster boats that gently rock in the harbor, tethered but free.
This is my dream life. But this week, it isn't a dream—it's real. I don't have to earn this trip by climbing some corporate ladder or checking boxes on a five-year plan.
I'm sitting here in the Airbnb, surrounded by beige couches with nautical lumpy pillows, watching the largest willow tree sway in the breeze. Seagulls squawk in the distance, and I can hear school kids chattering down the road.
I used to think my dream life would begin when I "made it." But what is "it"? What does "made" even mean? Why isn't this small, perfect moment the dream life? Why did I ever deem it fleeting?
Since I was laid off, I catch myself doing that—dismissing moments of my "regular" life because they're "not the dream yet." They don't quite match the images I've saved to my "dream life" Pinterest board since 2023, the one I keep copying over every January, another New Year's resolution I never quite fulfill.
I catch glimpses of dream life everywhere: the farmers market and linen pants, the bike rides, the airplanes and journals, the salt air, the little veggie garden out back. But I realize now that all I had pinned were things—beautiful, aspirational tchotchkes that I'd collect once, set on a shelf, then replace with sights set on some other version of the dream life.
As if me sitting here in Rockport with coffee in hand, looking at the ocean, can't be the dream life right now. As if it's only a taste of what regular life might become someday.
I've always known I would live a little untethered. But like those lobster boats in the harbor, I need something to anchor me while still allowing me to sway. I thought that anchor was Pinterest boards and future plans. But I was wrong. My dream life is my current life, anchored not by perfect aesthetics but by presence, contentment, and creativity. I no longer crawl across Pinterest looking for picture-perfect moments to match some future version of fulfillment.
As long as I hold true to these anchors—
Presence → Daily rituals that remind me I’m already living the life I once dreamed of.
Contentment → Treating simple pleasures like walks, journaling, and cozy routines as success marker
Creative Expression → Writing, filming, and sharing as part of my natural rhythm so that is flows as naturally as breathing
I am not untethered.
I've been trapped in a perpetual cycle of chasing some divine future version of fulfillment, as if this "regular" life is just a practice run.
Not so fast, my dear.
