The same thing happens every year.
Sometimes it's the first day. Sometimes it takes a couple of days. But it always happens.
I waken early to see the dawn's blood orange color grazing the eastern horizon as the blinding sun tries to rise above the low scrub, the boats bobbing in Hither Creek. Flags mark the morning's breeze.
And then a tiny bit of the crust of life just gives way to gratitude; a deep, abiding understanding of why I exist beyond my children, grandchildren, career accomplishments, existential journeys.
Simple. I find myself quieter in this place, happy in my solitude.
This drink of the elemental, the ocean's heart beating right outside my window will have to last, will have to sustain me through the coming months of unknowing, its constancy a good metaphor.
This year, it took until the last day for this place to touch me.
Sitting on my bed listening to the sounds of my son and his wife laughing in the next room, all I needed was a little nudge from Barber's Adagio for Strings, its harmonic journey rising, the volume reaching a crescendo then ending in a whisper.
Can this be all there is? A single morning of beauty seen from my Wedgewood blue and white room with a view of the sea out of every window for as far as I can see?