My feet being air cooled, not implanted in the cold wet sand. At the oceanside, is this where I wish to be right now? Not really. I am pleased to be warm and sheltered where I sit looking westward. Is the thought of being there--at the Pacific--sufficient? At this moment, yes. Always it's the sound of the power of the waves crashing, pouring through me is what I crave, the enormity of the sound.
At this pre-Thanksgiving moment, I think of the ocean. To the ocean, I bestow my awe and gratitude---for what it gives to us, and what it takes---without the ocean there would be no renewal. The ocean is another entity we tend to take for granted, until the ocean isn't behaving in a so-called normal fashion.
At Thanksgiving, stepping away from the table, stepping outside to nature seems to be the most sensible gesture; instead, we're expected to socialize inside, then eat and drink even more, and then expected to participate and indulge in copious food and drink throughout the holiday season until the New Year's resolutions to lose the accumulated weight. Of course, not all of us follow this social pattern. Not all of us have the benefit of over-flowing plates of food.
International tourists who love nature realize that Thanksgiving is a good time to enjoy our national parks because most of the population is inside eating, drinking and sitting, maybe standing. One of the times of my life when I was most grateful was camping on the valley floor of Yosemite Thanksgiving night. Always will I cherish that experience. Awakening the next morning---in a sleeping bag, no tent, being there. Another kind of enormity, another kind of beauty.
On this Thanksgiving, I am grateful that Cleto, my brother, does not have to suffer through another set of holidays. Not being able to partake in the joy of food---not only the eating but the creating of taste--was painful for him. When all food tastes metallic--that is one of the roughest of spots of a frustrated existence for anyone to endure.
The Pacific has absorbed his ashes, also a sprinkling of him was absorbed into the soil of his property.
No, I did not take Cleto for granted. This morning we were conversing---I was telling him that I purchased a new pair of New Balance Minimus, that my feet haven't been more at ease, except barefoot; that my heels are easier to lift.
Shoes, he liked. Though it was the walking in the shoes that never held its appeal. Perpetually, his mind raced ahead...the philosophy of walking or the doing of it did not offer comfort. He never told me why he didn't enjoy walking...
Before I was in elementary school, our father would tell tales of being constantly on the move during the war in Cebu...on the move on foot, seeking safety, food and shelter. He wanted me to understand some of what they had experienced from his perspective of holding together a small family. No longer having a home because the Americans had bombed their home and those of others, the Americans fearing that the Japanese would overtake the Filipinos. They lived a homeless life, living in the jungle, on higher ground. The trauma of World War II and the 4 post-war years were the foundation of Cleto's toddler and pre-school life experienced side by side with our brother Genie 2 years older.
With settlement no longer an abiding issue, I was born in CA after the family had been in CA less than a year. Throughout our relationship, never could he understand why I continue to be stimulated by the concept of the move, then dealing with the living in different places. Luckily, I had the benefit of security, the living in one house all my growing up years. Even at the end of his life, he kept on obsessing with me "Why are you bothering with another move after retirement?" Obviously, it's a good question. I believe that moving to another place allows another opportunity to consider life from another perspective...a chance to be refreshed.
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