I can see the ocean from our room's window. The semester's end rolls towards me like big surf, but Thanksgiving provided an excuse to spend a couple of days on the coast.
Today, I'm working on a revision of a long essay for class and the words come like an ebb tide. They recede. The new interfere with the old. Confusing cross currents erode the word count. High turbidity surrounds craggy rocks. Still, I'm grateful to be out here. And I trust the tide will turn and the words will flow, carrying in interesting pieces of driftwood, shell fragments, and withering jellyfish.
We had Thanksgiving dinner in our room. Bob completed the food preparation in advance—smoked turkey, marinated green beans, baked potatoes, acorn squash, and honey-glazed sweet potatoes. I baked an apple pie and picked up salad and bread. (Let's here it for the modern convenience of canned cranberries and turkey gravy in an aseptic container.) We packed it all in and used the microwave to reheat. Clean up was easy.
A dark visit to the beach after dinner revived us. The spitting rain refreshed. We ventured down to the water, barely able to discern the waves. Then, the flood tide gave good chase back up the beach. Repeat. The surf never tires.
We'd been doing a lot of talking lately. Definitely good to just enjoy. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for our time together.