To Desire

I want to see the world from the highest peak, like a picture I once saw as a child of a man standing somewhere high above it all, south of the border with red-brick mountains, defining to me a recollection or reference of an old and unmolested tribe world of Native Indians, which is somewhere high in the peaks of South America. Young as I was, I was old enough to understand there is an entire world out there—and somewhere beyond my imagination and somewhere beyond my wildest dreams is a world I that I hope to see someday.

A few months ago, or maybe it was even longer now, I don’t know, but either way forgive me. I was going over some early morning photographs that I took at Imperial Beach, San Diego.
I was facing west and watching the silvery mist lifting from the waves coming in from the Pacific. I felt the strangeness that this was me, here, living life in a way that I never thought possible.
Ye, I was alive in a new way. I was living and breathing, and sure enough I was eating new foods and trying new things.

There is the word zest, which means hearty enjoyment, which still falls short of my moments here. More so, there was something more than just moments of achievement; there was the death of my doubt, which went without bereavement because at last, I was rid of something the robbed me of my hopes and dreams.

I made it . . .

This meant something to me. So much happens in such a short amount of time. For example, I am where I am now but all can change, honestly, within the tick of a second.
I remember the beach in the morning and the thickness of the damp morning air, just a mile or so, North of the Mexican border.
I remember the sunsets and the locals that gathered to watch the sun go down. I remember the intenseness of the ultimate orange sky that draped across the heavens, so beautiful, so meaningful, so amazing to me like love from the woman I’ve always dreamed about.

It was beautiful here.
Although there was help for me to get where I was, still, I built this moment. I created this.
I stood at the edge between land and sea and found myself whole in the sense that yes, I was here because of me.

Earlier, on this same evening, there was a wedding on the beach. The marriage was non-denominational, informal too, but yet, more loving and beautiful than any service of matrimony I have ever seen before. Ever reminding me that love is real and takes on the shade of all faces, types, tastes and beings, which is not to say that I believed love was only limited—more so, this is only to say that I never knew how extraordinary love can be, so original, beautiful, like the Earth, like the sunset, lake the varying shades of the sky during a sunset I will never forger.

Hours before and during the professional part of my day, I tried to have something translated to a Mexican girl, with hopes to convey a message to simplify her job.
Her face connected with an honest, holy attitude; as if to her, dishonesty would be a great sin against the Virgin Mother, Herself, to which the woman offered me her farewell of, “Que Dios te bendiga,” which means, “God bless you.”

There is an entire world out there, just waiting to be seen. There are people out there too, just waiting to be heard.
Of course with me, however, my accent was the first thing to be noticed. It amazed me though, the smiles I received without even knowing my name, yet I was regarded ad Mr. New Yorker, which I accepted endearingly rather than just some tourist.
More to the point, I was here for a professional reason, which in turn became more spiritual than anything else.

Each evening, I made it a point to be sure and watch the sunset, which was never the same. None of them less beautiful than the other, but only different in the context that the sky was always changing.
Therefore, the sunset always changed, but ah, yeah, each day, sure as the clock on the wall, crowds gathered at the beach to watch the sun go down.

To me, it was though the entire town came by to say goodbye to the sun—and each morning, there was the same woman. She sat on the rock piles that reached from the beach and pointed into the Pacific like a rocky jagged finger. Each morning, just at first light, the woman sat with yoga posture, legs crossed and feet tucked beneath her bottom. Her hands out and placed upon her knees with palms up to the air, chin pointing slightly upwards, tilting her head back as if to inhale the spiritual gain of the moment as well as pay respect to the divinity of morning.

If you had asked me then, would I have ever thought I would know what it means to stand on a shore at Imperial Beach, I would have told you that I never knew what Imperial Beach was. I hardly knew what California was, aside from a place on the map on the opposite side of my country.
If you asked me if I ever pictured myself walking along the pier to watch the town folks catch sardines by the bucket loads in San Diego; I would have smiled and never thought this could be—but it was, it is, and will always be something I’ve seen.

Sure enough, I have never seen the side of the home-covered mountains at the Amalfi Coast. I have never been to Monte Carlo or Australia, nor have I ever been to Paris, or more sacredly; I have never been to Jerusalem nor have I stood before a hill known as Golgotha, which is the place of the skull, or more historically, this is where the holy crucifixion took place, which, regardless to my moments of uncertainty, still, this is where Jesus said, “Father, into your hands, I commit My Spirit.”

This is me, no different from anyone else in the world; I just want to live. I want to feel. I want to see things and sit for a while to enjoy a moment beneath this sky, which we all share whether we agree on things or not
This is me, away from political views and seeing life, firsthand.

This is me. I am not forsaken. I am not sickly or weak or punished. I am me, like you, just eager to live and amazed by my miscalculations that once limited me to believe a lie, which is I would never see anything so beautiful as here (or you.)