second seating

Other than going to church this morning, and taking two short walks with Jiggs, we stayed inside our gate all day Sunday.


Almost as if we were rehearsing for our own remake of 55 Days at Peking.


That is not a complaint. It turned out to be a nice day of rest.


I was going to do the laundry. I didn't. There is always Monday.


I was going to cook up an original dinner. I didn't. Instead, I ate leftover hoisin chicken.


I decided to simply sit with the dog -- and chat with him.


And I read. Nothing deep. Nothing challenging. Just another installment in Harry Turtledove's alternate history of the United States.


As I sat looking out at the ocean, I had one of those strange flashes of déjà vu.


Of course, even with its changing face, the ocean always has a patina of unwarranted familiarity. Rather like that brother-in-law, who always assumes that he knows you better than he does. In the case of the ocean, it may be because we seek it out.


The experience of the beach is a foundational childhood experience. And that may be one reason I thought I would find joy living by the seashore.


But that is the type of connection you expect to see in a psychotherapist's notebook.


The connection that struck me on Sunday was far more shallow.


And then I realized what it was.


If I had not chosen to live in Mexico, I could have spent the rest of my life on a cruise liner.


I love the cruise experience -- and not just any cruise experience. I am one of those passengers who need accommodations on the stern. I am an aft cabin sort of guy. If I cannot get one, I most likely will not sign up for the cruise.


A quick comparison between the photograph below and the photograph at the top of this post says a lot about why I decided to settle on the Pacific coast. This photograph is taken from my aft cabin on a cruise ship off the Pacific coast of Mexico.

There is something disconcerting about the comparison.


After giving the cruise ship option thorough consideration, I discarded it. It would be like having caviar for breakfast every morning.


And, as Stephen Sondheim wisely reminded us in Into the Woods:

Oh. if life were made of moments,
Even now and then a bad one!
But if life were only moments,
Then you'd never know you had one.

Those last two lines are as true as anything I have ever heard.


If we had nothing but "moments" in our lives, we would not even recognize that they had happened.


And that has got me to thinking. Am I asking too much of these moments at the beach?


I am trying to enjoy each day as it comes along -- especially these simple days with Jiggs.


Perhaps, I just need to continue to adjust to my new surroundings. Or maybe I need to realize there is much more to this journey -- and I have not arrived at a destination.