Mama

My mom is the smartest person I know. She might not have the highest degree, or the most academic knowledge. She can't do calculus (but she could if she wanted to), she isn't an engineer. None the less, my mother is the smartest person I know. The thing I appreciate most about her is that she taught me how to think. She taught me to be open to everything and take everything with a grain of salt. She taught me to make my own decisions and have my own opinions even if others (herself included) disagree. My mother loves to learn about academic things, but she also loves to learn about life. The clearest manifestation of my mother's genius is in her writing. Today I received an  email from her with the subject "If I ever blogged I'd blog this...". I would like to share the contents of this e-mail with all of you. (My mom has now begun blogging again. To read it on her blog click here.)

The ocean breathes, inhale and exhale. A sweet family trio asks me to take their picture. They are dressed like the sea: light blue shirts and tan shorts. The adults look like Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa holds the baby. Grandma hands me her cell phone. All I have to do is press OK. They are digitized. I press OK again to save the photo, and then take one more picture. The baby even looks at me. Smile and save. I love memories. Maybe they will send this to their children or their friends. Text the photo and in seconds, maybe minutes, their children or friends will see how happy they are at this moment. It is a moment, digitally captured, that will last for an indefinite forever.

The ocean inhales and exhales. In one breath it sucks in my shoe, half of my favorite pair. I bought them in Belize two Novembers past. All summer I wear them in Boise and they give me happy memories. It’s like having a photograph with me all the time. The grandma is alarmed and gestures toward the surf, “Your shoe!” I snatch it before the Pacific swallows it. I hope the photos turn out nice. The grandma is sure they will. I walk on.

A man in black walks past me, going the opposite direction. Black shorts, black, sleeveless shirt, moving fast, swinging his arms stiffly at his sides. He smiles. Everybody smiles this morning. Smiles, good morning wishes, nods. I walk slowly. A young man is meditating on the beach. He sits on a mat, a picture of serenity, but I don’t photograph him. It’s only intrusive if he notices, I think, but he might. I think about my footprints. Here the sand is hard. Exhale; the waves slap up the sand. Inhale; the surf slurps the shore into the sea. Exhale—slap, inhale—slurp. The man in black has already reached his turning point. He passes me again, this time going my direction. He smiles. Here the sand is deep and cold, beyond the slap and slurp.

I’m getting tired. It’s a long beach. Near the end I turn around, not retracing my steps. They’ve been washed away. I walk faster. My legs are tired and I’m hungry. Once more the man in black strides past, going my way again because I’ve turned. I see small footprints moving towards me; toes, arch, heel. My feet are small. Could these be my footprints? Maybe they aren’t all washed away. I turn and fit my right foot into a print: toes, arch, heel. Aha, like Cinderella, a perfect match. I step my left foot into a left foot print and walk a few feet in my own footsteps. This delights me, that my footprints are extant.

But my legs are tired and I’m hungry. I already drank all the water in my bottle. Now there are more people. We have to walk around each other when we step up the beach to avoid the exhale. Maybe someday I will do this again. Maybe I will keep this memory and all my digitized memories for an indefinite forever.