For all of the hell, darkness and isolation I endured as a child, growing up two blocks from the beach was certainly a highlight. Truth be told, it probably saved my life.
I don't remember the first time I dipped my little toes into the Pacific, but I'm sure, even as a little tyke, I felt a surge of inspiration. Even to this day, as a man in the firm grip of middle age, that feeling has not left me. When I get my old, grumpy ass down to the beach, I kick off my shoes and plunge my bare feet into the frigid water and feel that familiar surge.
If you're willing to head just a little further south down the California coast this time of year, you can experience this magical moment all while a super bloom of wild mustard and lupines and poppies creep down the hillsides above the beach, flooding the horizon with their starkly contrasting colors set against majestic sunsets unlike anywhere else in the world. No matter how much I lament the impossibility of living in Southern California, it is not hard to become mesmerized, overtaken by the awe-striking beauty dispersed along our coastlines. You can step outside here and smell the salty ocean, and more often than not, the smell of citrus wafting in the breeze as well.
These days, inspired words don't come easily. It's not so much that I suffer from writer's block, but something more akin to a clanging mind; a soul distracted by the exhaustive stream of everyday minutiae and its often deleterious effects. Even in my darker days, I realize I am blessed in more ways than I ever could have imagined. Not just in my personal life - that's a given - but in the physical space of the locale I inhabit. I am surrounded by breathtaking beauty, but I often still don't know how to unearth the words I want to say; still unsure of, and grappling with, the lessons this gorgeous place can teach me.
Perhaps, I only need call on the years of meditation practice; to remember to be still, to sit unrushed as the waves crash all around me and the sun illuminates the water across the distant horizon.
Many days, I feel a kind of growing discomfort about the AIs and algorithms taking over the natural flow of life and creativity; out-thinking and out-writing us at every turn. No matter how soulless it may seem, the future is here, and it is a thought that is frequently difficult to dismiss. But then, when I take that deep breath, when I slow the clang and clatter down, I remember that no computer or app or technologically advanced creation can feel the rush of cold salt water on bare ankles, or gently touch petals basking in the warm sunlight.
AI can't do what you and I do - wrestle deep within our souls through the sacred work of making; the work of actually creating something out of the things we think and feel.
And so what do I do with all of this? Do I give in to the clang and scattershot of my mind's unease? Or do I take that deep breath, pay clear attention and remain distinctly, messily human? It seems like the better option most days, if I can muster it. To let the water run over my toes and trust, not only in everything I'm seeing and feeling, but also in the idea that the words will eventually come.
