The Old Man, the Coffee Shop, the Shore

I met an old man once; one at the end of his life. He told me a secret. Come here he said, come close and listen: "Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and be. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning." I told him he was crazy and deserved to die alone.

Walking now, perturbed, angry, disillusioned. And, thinking. 'The ocean. Stupid man. Spent his days, his worries, his breaths, caring enough to swallow that ocean every day. Cared enough to walk down there every day and take it all in. Cared enough to take it in and then to live the day. Stupid old man.' I resolved that he could take the cares and the ocean with them to his grave. I would have no part. I would waste no more time.

That night, I went to the smoke-filled coffee shop.

And, then, it happened . . .

The next day, bewildered, tired, empty, I rose. I staggered to the shore and stared. No thinking. No thoughts. Just silence, peppered with the crashing of waves on that goddamned shore. They kept coming; I kept staring.