Ocean Memory

This is memory:

I look out at the ocean. The shallow water is pale green and flat. Calm and peaceful. Tranquil. Pretty, even. Today. The ocean is beautiful today. Another day, the ocean will be angry. It will be a killer.

Life is like that. One day life is calm, peaceful, beautiful. Another day life is in turmoil. Perhaps the ocean is a metaphor for life. Or, perhaps life is a metaphor for the ocean. After all, the ocean was here first. The ocean gave birth to life. Life is a child of the ocean. We all carry a little of that ocean in us. It is part of our blood, part of our sweat, part of our tears. Our body fluids are based on the sea. The sea is our mother.

But enough of memory. Today is cloudy and wet. A cold rain falls. I have moved my chair in front of the fireplace. I have a fire log burning in the fireplace. It casts its heat and light onto my bare legs and body. It feels very good. For me there has always been something almost primeval about warmth, especially on a cold day. I suppose if the ocean is our mother, then the Sun must be our father. Surely light came first. Light and the warmth it provides preceded everything.

I have nothing to say today. So I sit in my chair in front of my fireplace, holding my phone with both hands, with my elbows propped on the arms of the chair, and I dictate into the phone. The phone writes down everything I say and when I am done, a few taps on the phone will transfer what I have spoken into a post on my blog. What a world we have created!