On my recent trip back home, I found myself standing in front of the ocean and listening to my own heart beat one early morning. “I missed this,” I told myself as my eyes traced the to and fro movement of the blue strip of water in front of me and the soothing crashing of the waves put me at ease. The boundless water stretched in glory stood between me and the horizon. Where does the ocean begin? Where does it end? I often wondered about this when I was a child.
As I stood on the wooden bridge watching the graceful unfolding of a new day in the place that raised and nurtured me, I breathed in the familiar salty sea air and said a prayer of gratitude in silence. There is nothing like being in the place that brings memories of summer time, of golden rice stalks, of fishermen arriving at the seashore with smiles on their face, of children giggling during an early morning swim, of days of love and being part of other people’s lives, of being young and life being so simple. I sure miss those days.
This is a place I can always go back to, a place that will always welcome me in its loving embrace, a place that blesses me, a place that is home to the soothing waves that can wash away even my deepest scars, a place where I can hear God’s voice at its loudest.
The light was growing around me and I felt the heat of the sun, signaling it was time to go home and indulge in a hearty breakfast of champorado and daing (I prefer daing over tuyo). Walking back to the town that was slowly stirring from deep slumber, I heard the ocean sing its song once again. I knew it was a farewell song for me.