Escaping the rat race to move to a tropical island. I think we’ve all dreamed of this.
I met her on the beach yesterday
And she had golden skin and golden hair.
She was playing with her son.
On the beach, on a work day.
And she had time to play in the sun with her son
Because she was one of The Ones Who Walk Away.
When she lived in Holland, she told me,
All her friends were good friends, and busy.
She couldn’t just call and say, “What are you doing this evening?”
It would be, “Let’s make plans for a week from Saturday.”
And when they did get together, all their cellphones were ringing,
And they only half paid attention to each other anyway,
Because their lives were busy.
And when she saw the sky, it was cold and gray.
She could have stayed, and been busy like her friends,
And lived like her friends, and made lots of money like her friends.
But she wanted something else, so she Walked Away.
She Walked Away from office cubicles, from rush hour, from dress clothes, from grayness, from noise, from busy-ness.
She packed very little, and came to this small island, of sun and sand,
Of saturated colors, and music.
She bought a small house in the hills just for the view.
She has little money, and sometimes that’s hard.
But she doesn’t need winter coats or comforters,
She wears old clothes and drives an old car.
She only works mornings, and spends the afternoons with her son.
On the beach, even on work days.
And we sat with our toes in the sand, the wind blowing our hair,
Drinking a beer, and watching the sunset.
She said I could find her here playing on the beach, almost any evening.
She told me that once her house was broken into, and they stole her BlackBerry.
But she never replaced it, because she didn’t need it anymore,
Since she had Walked Away.
