Evanescence

As friend and I walked through my neighborhood this morning she said, "This place is a wonderland."  Perfume of jasmine.  Patchwork of homes small and big.  Sea air and blue-green waves.  Beaches that stretch mile after mile.  Seaside amusement park that's colorful in the daylight, and animated with moving lights at night.  Yes, I've thought the same thing about Santa Cruz over and over:  Wonderland.  Wonderland.  Wonderland.

I guess that makes me Alice. There are times I feel a bit like I've eaten the magic mushroom just because of the beauty here--or maybe it's the infusion of negative ions. 

Santa Cruz shines even in a photo taken on an old iPhone.

Now that it's summer, there are a lot more people on the beaches than when we moved here in December.  It struck me today, as Dave and I played Frisbee in the sand, that all the people around us were happy.  Blissed-out people sunbathed, ate, drank, played guitars, and nursed babies on blankets.  Others snapped photos of their laughing friends.  Everyone screams joyfully when they are close to the water's edge and a wave sneaks up on them.  Even (or especially) the dogs seem high on something, walking with an extra bounce in their step.

We live two blocks from the beach, and sometimes at night I wake up to hear roaring, crashing waves--or barking sea lions.  Some mornings we walk a block to our local cafe, get a coffee and a cherry turnover, and walk to our favorite bench overlooking the water.  

My dad always loved the ocean.  We lived hours from it, but whenever we went to a beach together, he'd insist we watch the sunset.  He said there was something special about watching the sun sink into the water.  You could see time pass.  It was a reminder of the evanescence of life.  Dad wanted to suck every moment from every day.  Living in Santa Cruz makes me feel that way.