Oregon Coast- (Astoria to Tillamook) & Random Thoughts

This is the grand finale of our holiday on the West Coast. Literally on the coast... It's been about seven or eight years since I was out there so this was quite a special treat for both of us. Time flies, it's remarkable. To think that I'd been gone for five years and returned. Things feel different and the same.

Just yesterday at work, two of my old coworkers from Kaiser (who are married) showed up in the window at Costco, neither of us knowing the other was there. What a surprise! What a reunion! We hugged for minutes. Old friends. Enveloped by love. What energy and goodness it was.

I received an email asking if I'd like to do another Germany military adventure. I knew in my gut I didn't want to, but asked Justin if he did. He said no. No surprise there- he's more of a homebody. I'm also tired of moving and if we could just stay here until I die that would be fine with me. I'm even fine just taking trips to the woods to go hiking and to the lakes for some paddling... I couldn't imagine a better life. Sometimes living quietly is an adventure in itself.

Last weekend we came upon the wreck of John Iredale, an occasion from 1906. What a glorious, majestic wreck it was- metal rising from the sand in a misty haze of fog. I kept taking photos, entranced by its beauty and the idea of a shipwreck. We are all shipwrecked here. Until we are not. The idea is to enjoy the time we are shipwrecked. Stuck on this earth without any particular reason why.

Often I've wondered if I picked the wrong career. Lately I've felt it is as good as any. Knowing that I'm able to help some people every day. To give of myself a bit. To learn from my patients. To accept love from them also. More often I am giving but not always. And I'd say overall it's a positive thing in my life.

So these are small worries. And I am thankful.

Every day I think about my cousin's daughter, Kayleen. Every day I hope there is a miracle. Every day I can't figure out why there is so much cancer in this world. I wish I could take that away from her and make her into a normal third grader again. I don't know what it is like to lose your child at 9. I don't think anyone should know.

Forever, I've thought of age 34 as a marker. 34- when my dad died. Carrie is 34. I passed it. Molly is on her way. Now 34 seems so much older, so much luckier. Such a longer life. I mean, my dad got to have daughters and a wife and college graduation.

There is so much to be thankful for in this short, sweet life.