***Click Play Below to Hear Loren’s Voice***
This walking a line between living and dying continues to make me question my own depth. I’m in my late fifties and I’ve never really considered death before. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Turns out much of my time these days is spent trying to stay alive—doctors appointments, hospital stays, medications etcetera. All the while, considering what it means to be alive.
I was alive this week.
Freed from the hospital and onto the open road. Searching for any spot I haven’t seen—and any facet of Susie’s personality I haven’t explored.
I’m a visual person. When I listen to a poem or story there are pictures playing in my mind. The news photographers, with whom I’ve been best paired over the years, challenged me with their beautiful pictures. Can’t have stunning scenery and dull verbs. Since I was young, I’ve pictured what it would be like to be a writer, in romantic terms. My ideal setting would be a cottage on a wharf, water lapping amongst the kelp forest, boat rigging clanging softly, an occasional seagull screech—and can’t do without a fog horn piping in. Inside the cottage—an ornery old cat, a big lovable dog, a potbelly stove and something warm in a cup. My writing table is at the window. The words just flow.
We pulled into Morro Bay this week, with great tunes playing in the background. I described to Susie my ideal nest for the night. She pulled the van over to the side of the road and tapped her fingers on the screen of her iPhone before driving about another hundred yards. We pulled up in front the Estero Inn, a modern equivalent of the romantic writing scene I just described. There was only one room left—the Kelp Forest Suite.
To me, this is how it feels to be alive.