I write happily tucked into a quaint single room in the heart of Lagos. Today’s shift back into action is so welcome after nearly a week of illness and recovery. My spirit is positive and the movement is slow. Here’s a journal double-header:
As I wander this morning to this rocky and stained ocean front precipice my mind turns through matters of spirit and nutrition. With improved health and vitality, and so much perspective over-chewed in past days (like stiff and flavorless Trident), my confidence is renewed and my enthusiasm is somber. I count three Portuguese fishermen to my left, separately nested into their own nooks of iron-infused and ordered rubble. They sit for hours watching their lines and listening to the rhythm of the ocean. I wonder, is it like television static or a meditative OMMM to them. These litter-strewn rocks remind me that what is new, mystical, and sacred to one is easily worn, monotonous, and trivial to another.
I move on today, these last moments I take in are likely my last gazes of this corner of Earth. In the view there is relief. There is humbling. There is clarity. There are more lessons to learn every time I come back to life. There is fear to be forgotten. Ahead, in the far distance, I can see a third jutting peninsula, there is more civilization there. To the west the second reaching and crumbling finger of rock is the last; it’s the end of the world. The surf pounds, like a tease, like thunder, for eons of time. And how this ocean could swallow you up. It’s immensity and mystery always so daunting to me. I embrace its energy from the shore and shallows. I adore the sun and surf.
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