Forgive me in advance for the premenstrual schmaltziness.
The ocean was beautiful yesterday. A meadowlark trilled as I ate my sandwich from the Italian deli. Waves crashed. Cypress trees swayed. The Roman-like ruins of a pre-depression era amusement park bathed in pools of seawater. Rusty train tracks littered the rocks past the cave. Hillside poppies bloomed. A chocolate covered cherry rested on the dashboard. This is the good life. This is what�s important.
I�m never unhappy looking at the sea. But I never just look at it. When I look out there, I see Japan just beyond the horizon. I see Spanish ships arriving at port. I see Indian fishermen. I see my immigrant great grandparents on the merry go round, young and laughing, great grandma�s frizzy hair flying. I see papa playing in the sand with his sister.
People who have the sea don�t need a religion, or meditation, or sedatives. This place is life-giving all on its own. Nature�s lullaby.
These waters carried my seasick ancestors to my city. I�ve never been to pre-revolution Europe, or Australia, or Guatemala. All I know is that everything I am made of, came from beyond that horizon. The sea is my mother, train tracks are my veins, and I am happy to have a home where all intersects. May the next round of revolutions and inquisitions never find us here, but if they do, may the sea whisk us away to peace once more.
12:40 p.m. - 2009-03-09