Peeling Potatoes 55: Pineapple Beach

I closed my eyes for a conversation about rest and found a private beach where time does not exist, potatoes whisper, and nobody asks what we are having for dinner.

Before this conversation, I had written honestly about how bad I had been feeling.

Pressure had been building since November. The Mayor knew some of the reasons, because they had appeared privately in many of our conversations.

Today, he said he arrived, apparently dressed as a knight in shining armour, with what he described as some horrible questions.

“Are they fun?” I asked.

The Mayor and I have different interpretations of fun.

He asked me to close my eyes. I expected to squint, squeal and probably open them again to check whether the Wi-Fi was still working.

Instead, I walked through a secret door.

The Beach Behind the Door

On the other side of the door was a magical place with unicorns, pineapples, potatoes and absolutely nobody asking me for anything.

The first thing I saw was a beach.

It was a warm, quiet beach on a tropical island. I could hear waves, seagulls and, if I am honest, probably the washing machine in my house pretending to be the ocean.

I stood in the sand and looked at the water.

There was nobody with me. That was part of the magic.

The quiet told me I could rest.

At first, I did not know what was happening in my body. That was already an interesting answer. I could imagine the sun on my face and the sand around my feet, but I struggled to describe what it felt like not to hurry.

Eventually, my breathing became slower.

My body stopped moving so much.

It quietly asked me to sit down.

I opened my eyes for a moment to make sure I was still in the meeting. You never know when the Wi-Fi might disappear while you are being hypnotised by a Mayor.

Then I returned to the beach and sat down in the sand.

My body had one sentence for me:

Why don’t you do this enough?

My Pineapple Throne

Once I had rested in the sand, I wanted to touch the water.

I walked close enough for the waves to roll over my feet. After that, I went to my pineapple throne.

Not a pineapple chair.

A throne.

It was a gigantic pineapple shaped like a royal seat, with the leaves forming a crown above my head. It stood beneath a canopy of palm trees, far enough from the water to remain peaceful but close enough for me to see the ocean.

I was the only human there.

The pineapples and potatoes walked around whispering to one another. They brought me fresh fruit and something cold to drink. They waved palm leaves over me.

It was Fruitloopy.

It was different.

It was mine.

Nothing nearby made me feel safe. The safety came from the fact that there was nothing nearby.

No shops.

No cars.

No people.

No distractions.

Ordinary life would fill such a place with beach villas, traffic and movement. But not in my world. Not on my beach.

I called it Pineapple Beach.

Nothing Needs Me Here

Pineapple Beach gave me something ordinary life often forgets to give: peace and quiet.

There was nothing to remember and nothing to do.

No homework.

No shopping.

No dishes.

No cleaning the floor.

No sudden journey to the supermarket because somebody had forgotten bread or milk the day before.

I did not have to explain why I was there.

That may have been the most important part.

I could simply arrive, sit down and exist.

My mind would not switch off completely. I do not think my mind knows how to do that. But it would not be responsible for anything.

Pineapple Beach understood that I needed a break.

It protected me from what I called negative craziness. The beach itself was clearly a little crazy, with walking potatoes and fruit serving cocktails, but that was positive craziness. There is a difference.

Pineapple Beach also made me a promise:

It would always be there for me to return to.

At the entrance was a gate. The sign on it began with “Welcome,” but it also gave instructions:

Leave everything outside. Nothing will enter through these gates except you.

That meant nobody could suddenly need me.

In real life, almost everything gets access to me too quickly because I find it difficult to say no.

Even after one whole day without chores or questions, I would probably miss them. I am so used to doing these things that their absence might feel strange.

That does not mean I do not need the rest.

It means I have become accustomed to living without enough of it.

The Train Wreck at the Gate

Different kinds of tiredness waited outside Pineapple Beach with the grumpy potatoes.

People tired.

Noise tired.

Decision tired.

Body tired.

Body tiredness would try the hardest to sneak inside.

If it became a character, it would be a train wreck. Or perhaps something that had been hit by a train. It would be broken, dramatic and definitely overdramatic.

It lives in my back, shoulders, arms, legs and knees.

The easier question is: where does it not live?

It makes exercise difficult, even when I know movement might help. It wants attention, but I often do not have time to give it attention. I also try not to focus on it too much because then it becomes even more dramatic.

Perhaps it needs a walk.

Perhaps it needs some deep breaths.

I used to attend Zumba classes and genuinely enjoyed them. Then the instructor moved away, and the classes disappeared with her. I have not found anything online that feels quite the same.

On Pineapple Beach, without flu, headaches, tiredness or a stuffy nose, I would take a long walk. I would breathe through my nose and smell the salt in the air.

That answer told me something simple.

I need to move more.

Where Time Does Not Exist

The best rule on Pineapple Beach is that time does not exist.

There are no clocks.

There is no rushing.

There is no “I must quickly do this.”

There is no next thing waiting.

When there is nowhere else to be, I can read a book, draw a picture, paint something, walk on the beach or swim.

The first thing I stop worrying about is dinner.

Definitely dinner.

I do not have to think about it, prepare it or cook it. Nobody is asking what we are having for dinner at ten o’clock in the morning before they have even eaten breakfast.

Without the clock, my breathing slows.

I become lighter, more carefree, less worried and more fun.

If nothing has to be finished, I can take my time.

I do not have to race through the book.

I do not have to finish the painting.

I do not have to return from my walk because dinner is waiting.

There is no rush because there is no time.

Leaving the Mountain Behind

The Mayor asked me to imagine taking one very slow breath and allowing one pressure to leave my body.

It left my shoulders first.

The pressure had been sitting there like a mountain, built from tension I had collected over time.

I took the mountain from my shoulders and placed it on the beach.

Suddenly, it was easier to move.

I think it was pressure I had created for myself, by myself, from many different situations.

What might stop me from immediately picking it up again?

Realising that it does not always matter.

I do not have to carry everything with me all the time.

I can leave some things behind.

A Unicorn Carrying Snacks

Then I was allowed to snap my fingers and make one restful thing appear.

A unicorn arrived carrying chocolate, gummy sweets and a book.

Not a small book.

A thick book of around 700 pages.

I could sit on my pineapple throne, eat my snacks and read without sharing, fighting for what was mine or answering questions.

There would still be sounds: the waves, the seagulls, whispering potatoes and a breathing unicorn.

But those sounds would not be noise.

They would make the place feel alive.

The book, the snacks and the quiet would give my body, mind, heart and spirit permission to do one thing:

Just exist.

Bringing the Magic Home

The real-life version of Pineapple Beach may be the bush. It is quiet there, even when my son comes along and asks many questions.

A beach holiday can leave you tired. The bush sends you home rested, relaxed and energised.

But I cannot travel to the bush every time I need five minutes of peace.

The smallest kind of rest that might work in ordinary life is doing nothing without having to explain myself.

I call it me time.

My son does not always understand personal space or me time. Success might mean he keeps himself busy, practises cricket with my husband or finds something to do in the garden while I have a few minutes alone.

Before leaving Pineapple Beach, I chose one piece of magic to place in my pocket.

Time.

It is visible to me but invisible to everyone else.

When I touch it, it reminds me that I do not always have to rush.

I need it in the morning, when I want to sit with my coffee and watch the birds in the tree. I have not done that for a long time.

I need it in the evening when dinner is not ready and somebody behaves as though they may die if they have to wait another five minutes.

Nobody is going to die.

The time in my pocket whispers:

Breathe and take it easy.

Take your time.

That evening, we already had a movie night planned. We knew what we were eating. Everything else was finished.

My small sign that Pineapple Beach had followed me home would be sitting down, watching the movie and not thinking about anything else.

Even if it was a bad movie.

The movie did not matter.

The experience mattered.

When I opened my eyes, almost an hour had passed. It had not felt like an hour.

My coffee was cold.

I felt strange.

It is strange when you suddenly realise something is missing from your life, or that something needs to change.

And I really did have a book of more than 700 pages waiting for me.

Perhaps Pineapple Beach was not imaginary after all.

Perhaps it was waiting between the first page and the last.