Everyone loves a secret: a short cut through the woods, a fishing hole, a beach.
I’m at the Secret Beach now, and I’m reminded that it’s been years since Micah Erenberg merged into the rocks and sand that line this endless spine of a beach – a beach that arches out of an inland ocean. It came by revelation: if place is being, then become that place: become the Secret Beach: become a firmament for summer days: become a place where you belong, a place that reminds you of home, that is home. This is what the Songs of the Secret Beach do, too. You can hear them easier out here: they allow for others – like me – to reflect.
I walk into the lake up to my waist. I see myself through the ripples that round me. Like a record player, my finger is a stylus and I lower it into the wavy grooves below. “Miss You” plays, and it carries me to shore. No one’s around, and so I sing along, kicking the water.
This is the secret of the Secret Beach: you make your own meaning. But don’t tell anyone I told you that. That’s between you and me.