It has been nearly 21 years that I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area.  If I could afford to return, I would do so in a hot second.  But I regress.  The thing I miss most about living there is being so near the ocean.  How can you not feel what I consider an innate connection?  This is true of other things as well:  mountain ranges, secluded areas where star gazing is really possible, and others which I may write about in future posts.  It’s a healthy fear of something that in some way can cause physical or emotional distress that I attach to being near to the ocean.  It can kill you in no time flat without a thought to having ever done so.  If you managed to survive such an encounter, it might scar you in ways that possibly you would never know.  The ocean is mighty, beautiful, life sustaining, inspirational, and practical, with other adjectives used over the years by billions of people.  And whether you are actively praising an almighty being for it and other so-attributed acts of creation, or not, how can one believe that we, human beings, are on this planet at this time, sometimes arguing whether creation is our reality or not, are an accident.  That the ocean, and its myriad wonders of sustainability, is an accident.  Scientists are inevitably correct, in my estimation, in many presumptions about the planet’s past, but that doesn’t preclude the possibility of a creator.

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