Still life, with fog and traffic jam

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.


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