And now it’s here, summer, and I am thinking of how it was when the days were long and the nights were hot. The lights were bright and the music was good. I remember.
In fact, I remember it all. I remember the bars on the waterfront and the friends I thought I’d know forever.
I remember the songs that played throughout different periods of the night and towards the later hours; they’d always play the song Sweet Caroline at a place called Paddy McGee’s.
Everyone sang along too.
At this point, the crowd was thick and the liquor had flowed enough to fuel the patrons that stood and danced around at the outside bar, which was on the canal, and tucked away in a town called Island Park

 There is a connection that happens, which I cannot describe in any other way or with any other word. It’s a connection.
Like the kids from the neighborhood. You never forget the kids from the neighborhood. They know you in a different way and from a different time.
There is a connection that comes when people go through a process together. I have completed several programs and classes throughout my life. I have gone through different phases and changes. Throughout each, I have made life changing connections.

This is day two:
I am awake to watch the sky change. Sunrise takes place at 5:44 they say but my sleep pattern is off because my body I still on the hours of Eastern Standard.
For the moment, I am outside, facing the beach and listening to the waves. I can smell the salty air and feel the winds, which are cool on the skin.

Here I am now (but of course, you already knew this)
I am far away from you, my life, and the rest of my comfort zone. I am here, clear across the country, in which, let’s face it, I am farther away than I have ever been before.

And ah, here it comes.
Someplace I’ve never seen before
but only heard of
or maybe dreamed about at some point . . .
San Diego California, the sunrise, the beach,
the fact that I earned this trip on my own steam
and on my own merit.
The West Coast is what happens
when I keep my plans together
and set my distractions to the side.

The way I love you comes back at me in different directions.
And I can see this in the reflection of your eyes,
which look at me like perfect mirrors
to reflect the stories in your life.
This teaches me what I have become
and what I mean to you.

I was sifting through some of my older journals and came across a piece that was posted a few years back. It’s funny to me. It’s funny because time overlaps with something relevant from our yesterdays to remind us of what should be important now.

In the book, “A Diary of a Young Girl,” Anne Frank wrote, “Paper is more patient than man.” I agree. She said this because she believed that people are impatient. And let’s face it. She was right. We live in a me first world. But she was just a kid when she wrote this. She was a kid from a different generation in an ugly time and an ugly place. She wrote in her diary because to her, it was easier to be honest on paper. I get that. To her and her diary, Anne Frank used the paper and pen because a blank page has no agenda or anyplace else to go. I get that too.

You are far from us now and away at a place that we don’t understand on this side of the world. I am not sure what the landscapes look like. I don’t know what the weather has in store for you today or what your plans will be.
I wanted to reach out to you and touch base. I figured since you are where you are, might as well write to you about the reasons why you went where you went.

I know there is beauty in this world. Sometimes beauty is hidden. Sometimes we might have to look for it and sometimes, I think the most beautiful things are hidden in plain sight but we tend to overlook them.

When there is no room left between your back and the wall;
I am me and you are you,
undressed and undecorated,
then we are us
in true form.
When there is no room left for blame or shame or guilt
or the need to point a finger
to find accountability for things that are far beyond our control,
then there is rest.
Then there is peace, if we so choose