Now that I’ve told my sister about the frustratingly nonaccessible facilities and the waste-of-time pre-op anesthesia visit, the experiences don’t seem so annoying. I slogged through it, voiced my opinion when asked, and ended my day at a charming little house in Santa Cruz. The air bears the breath of the ocean. I saw the glow of the setting sun on her surface. Tomorrow I will drive to the boardwalk and sit on a bench. Her voice beckons me.
My list of tasks looms like the low-lying fog that rolled into the bay this evening. But in the morning, I shall wrap myself in a purple shawl and linger over tea. The ripples of my intention will spread. I’ve done enough that only a little effort will carry me through. Later, I will find a place to sticker for Xander, my friend Beth’s son who tragically died, and for whom I carry little stickers which she sends us to take a bit of him to places he never saw.
On this morning’s drive from the Delta, I thwarted the GPS lady and took the backroad. I tarried on the banks of the slough. I turned off the radio, lowered the window, and aimed my camera at a proud heron. He did not flinch. If I had a mean streak, I would have set the phone to video and tapped my horn to capture his startled flight. Instead, I murmured my thanks and continued towards the highway.
After my gracious hostess got my bags into the little bedroom, I asked about vegetarian restaurants. She wrinkled her brow and mentioned Cafe Gratitude. “Perfect!”, I proclaimed; and off I went. Now my leftovers sit on a shelf in the homeowner’s fridge. They will make a nice breakfast, with a hot beverage, on the little deck that she mentioned I would share with her housemates. “They just got married,” she informed me, with a bright twinkle in her clear eyes.
In the restaurant, a sign asked for what I am grateful. I made a list as I ate my salad. My sister; my son; the folks at the park where I live; a job; a full belly. A reliable car. Dawn at the ocean. Dusk in the Delta. Twenty-five years beyond the grim life expectancy pronounced over my hospital bed. A grey heron who posed for me, on a hyacinth-choked waterway, beyond the confluence of two great rivers.
It’s the seventh day of the one-hundred and sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
