Not even plenty of caffeine can make snow fun. Nope. Uh uh. My dream of an endless summer has become buried under a blanket of slush. Just a week ago I looked out the window at the grey, endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The lullaby of high tide reminds me of moments of utter bliss: swimming in the moonlit, wine-dark sea during summer solstice in Rethymnon, Crete, reading alone in Santa Cruz, snapping blurry photographs of my brother at Big Sur, the stinging wind and rain at Les Falaises d’Etretat and not even caring the boy I loved was about to leave me, dancing unabashedly on the cliffs above the Golden Gate Bridge, getting stoned (the last time) at Muir Woods on the way to Napa, falling asleep with C.S. and Delta the dog in Venice Beach…I only now remember drifting last night in a blueblack sea and overflowing calmness. Something spiritually healing about the sea. Something that resonates with Home. Something in the way the salt air murmurs and beckons me unknowingly its wholeness. It envelops, embraces me, and I cannot stop myself. I drink hungrily.