horsing around

So, I am sitting on the balcony thinking about what might be a good topic for my Monday post, and nothing comes.


Nothing.


This is not writer's block.


It is life block.


Sunday was a lazy day. Jiggs and I slept in late. I went to church.


The rest of the day, I read -- taking a long time to read very little.


And I caught up on the blog. That must have been about four or five hours before I realized the day was gone.


It was a good retirement day. And I have nothing to complain about there.


But, then I saw him. I do not know his name nor do I know the name of his steed, but I could probably see him pass by on my beach every day. He is there; I am not.


Horses and beaches are not an unusual mix. There are tourists who ride horses on the beach here just as they do at Pacific City.


But this fellow is special. He is the real McSanchez.


He lives about three blocks from me. In fact, there are several horses and mules stabled in my little village.


But look at the lariats. The sombrero. The fact that he is one with his ride.


He is the very essence of being in the moment. Some of us strive our entire lives to avoid striving. And here is an example of how it happens naturally.


Every time I see him ride by, I revert to being eight.


When my parents moved the family to the suburbs of Portland, a number of our neighbors had horses. Darrel and I lobbied for a horse for a long time.


Mom made a deal. If we saved up enough money, we could buy a horse. She kept an envelope marked "Horse Money" that we attempted to fill with the sale of vegetables from our garden and other money from chores.


I have no idea how much money we saved, but we never did buy a horse. And our boyish fancies turned to other interests -- as our mother knew we would.


But, each time I see my neighbor ride by, I get to live a little bit of the past while I admire the moment that has been given to me -- simply living here by the sea.