I’ve flirted with vegetarianism since my teens.  My mother discovered the turmoil which hamburger caused my belly and scaled back on my meat consumption.  In college, I considered myself what we then called “lacto-ovo vagetarian”, meaning that I ate dairy and eggs but no meat, fish,or fowl.  Later I phased white meat and bacon back into my diet, and for decades, that’s how I ate. In 2014, I went back to my original version of being a veg-head, which purists now call “vegetarian” as distinguished from “vegan”.   It’s not a matter of principle for me.  It’s just what my body prefers.

But once a year since then, I’ve nodded to pescatarianism at a table overlooking the stunning view where the Russian River meets the endless glory of my Pacific.  Yesterday I made the annual voyage, starting early in the morning from Geyersville, where I had spent the night in a quirky retreat dedicated to the Goddess.  After a luscious carb-load at Flaky’s in Healdsburg, I headed west, encountering flooded roads, misty hills, and surreal moments, including one stuck behind a crew shoveling a mudslide from the roadway.  I spent the day on Highway 1, cleansing my spirit, replenishing my resolve, and breathing the song of the sea in deep, greedy gulps.

It’s the eighteenth day of the sixty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.