It’s night, and the foghorns are sounding. I’m going to miss that about living out here, right next to the ocean — the constant reminder that my world ends, right here, I’m right on the edge. Just beyond my bedroom window begins the world of the sea, unknowable to me. Often when I look out my window, I see massive barges pushing their way solidly across the horizon towards the Golden Gate Bridge. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be crew on one of those barges. It’s just a life that’s unfathomable to me. I don’t mean I can’t fathom that other people do it. I can’t fathom doing it myself. I just have no idea where to begin imagining what it’s like. So it’s liberating to live out here, in a way. Just a look out my window and I’m confronted with the finiteness of my daily life. It’s a relief. The significance of my life has a visible boundary. I need that. It keeps me feeling whole.
The ocean is my spirit animal.
So, while I’m really boundlessly excited about moving to the Mission, hearing the foghorns bleat their warnings out to sea does render me a bit (preemptively) nostalgic. I’ll miss this place.
Moving on.
