found it, and remember SO HAPPILY writing it, so will repost it:
Back in North Carolina for a 3 day visit – mostly to see my sister – I had the chance to walk down the beach on sand wet, sand dry, sand grey, sand pebbled, under skies mostly grey. Delightfully grey, with rough sea under it. At this point of wildness, I ride one or two waves in and then sink right to the bottom of the sand to let the rest wash over me. Then scramble up and head in, thankful to have outbreasted the undertow you can always feel pulling.
You can go down on the beach with friends or family but, gloriously, you always feel alone. Not lonely, just alone.
I sat with my sister Peg on a bench on a dry place between the sound and the sea and we phoned my oldest friends – Sarah struggles with dates and times and still you feel sort of connected.
Everything beachlike feels connected, as does France. The places you have loved, I guess, and so keep loving.
Matthew and I sat up late talking: now I LOVE talking late with Matthew. The superb interview he did for some recent magazine
began with the interviewer’s comments on his depth of mind. Right on.
Well, this is being written on a shaky airplane, and feels shaky, if true. Back to New York, truth itself for me. Don’t know why. Maybe the park? the rowboats, the bikes, never mind if you aren’t in or on them, they are there. And they give you that feeling of thereness, which is the same as hereness. Enough.