“why”

So many folks back home have asked me why I stay in hostels.  Mostly these people have not and would not do anything like this:  Fly across the country, rent a car, and go to an isolated place to sleep in the bottom bunk just to have the breeze of the ocean kiss you as you rest.

It is not merely that.  It is all of it:  The strangers in the kitchen; being separate from the day trippers who walk to the point; having the lady who cleans tell you how her husband’s fishing season has been.  I feel at home here.  I meld with my environment.

Yesterday, I drove to Santa Cruz and mingled with the natives at a coffee shop called The Firefly.  But I fled back to Pigeon Point, to this place where I find acceptance even though I come but twice a year.  My soul longs to change its locale.  I do not wish to escape the life I have had for six decades so much as I yearn to meld with the skin which wraps itself around me in this place, on the ocean.

This is why:  A young lady plays her harp as the fog rolls in from out beyond  the reach of our eyes.  Beside her, an artist shapes images with a stencil knife around the contours of words which inspire her.  German mixes with Spanish and the broad flat sounds of England.  Laughter floats from the open door.  Backpacks lean against the wall.  Everyone sleeps beneath rough green army blankets and purple polka dot duvets.  We come as strangers and leave as family.

It’s the fourth day of the thirty-third month of My [Endless] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues; and I continue to bloom.

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One thought on ““why”

  1. Rebecca Jean Wirth

    This is undeniably beautiful on so many levels. I love hostels and prefer it to any hotel or “resort”. It gives the fullest breadth of the experience of life intertwined with others. It’s like living multiple lives in one life.

    Reply

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