It is early morning and like many early mornings, the reason why I can't sleep is that inspiration wants to speak. Softly tugging, until I start to stir and then finally to rise and walk over to my desk. I look out my office window, and the world is black at least that's the view. I wonder if Hemingway did the same. I have a picture of the view from his desk as a screen saver on my laptop. A view of Havana miles away. Two huge Prince palm trees frame the landscape, with miles of greenery eventually surrendering itself to the city beyond and below. I wonder if he could smell from the top of his oasis, the aroma of the salty sea, mixed with the ever-present stench of unrefined diesels. Did he, like me, stare out in the blackness hoping for light. Did the ink ever dry waiting for words. Like my fingers hovering just above the keys, wondering if the magic is going to happen.
I am up before the sun and the birds this morning, so it seems. It will be a couple hours before the creatures of flight, celebrate the mornings glory. Soon they will be perched upon hydro lines, eyes east, waiting for the smallest glimpse of light. Some mornings, the restless kingfishers, who for some reason are oblivious to light or that some people sleep at night, can be heard making a fuss. Not today though. Today is unusually quiet. Quiet, not just outside but inside my mind. While I wait for something to happen, my mind drifts back to my time, back to that picture, back to Cuba.
I am on the veranda looking out towards the blue waters that are gently caressing the shore. My friends are sleeping in, trying to come down from the effects of a night of drinking. I'm drinking Cuban coffee and clutching my journal. The huge wicker lounge chair makes it easy for me to stretch out to see just beyond my feet: Paradise. Truly luxury lives here but so does poverty.
The fine line between poverty and prosperity can be seen just down the road. We took a tour bus to Havana from Varadero and along the way we drove through many communities. Some quaint, some not so much. Many houses had no doorways. I guess, if you have nothing lose, you have no fear of losing it. I saw children laughing, playing and small dogs joining in on the fun. I saw toothless old men standing at huts (makeshift bars) drinking rum, and smoking hand-rolled cigars. What, I didn’t see? Begging. Even in Havana. We ran into only one person who had his hand out. There was some selling going on. One guy was drawing a picture of me. I walked away. I learned my lesson in Vegas. Leave your hands in your pockets and move on. I thought after the fact, maybe it was rude of me. Luckily, my friend Bill, who is one the most charitable people I know, stood in. Five dollars later he was the proud owner of a doodle.
I am reminded of the scene at Hemingway's Cuban home not too far away. As I walked the winding path through the palms and sat on the rod ironed benches along the way just to take in every view. I wondered, he did the same. Resonating a thought until he had to walk briskly not let it escape on his way back to his desk. I continued down the path to a boat in dry-dock. It was unused, clinging to what every life it had left. It was dying to get back to the sea. But it was a memory. A memory of a younger happier time, of love and life
Along the path there are gravestones of the pets that have died. Everything is a memory and everything a reminder, that to love we must accept loss. That is the price of the sweet nectar of life and the essence of our existence. Like the chipped and faded paint of the once grand ship, eventually we have no choice but to say goodbye....
Like the old man in the sea clinging to proof. Just a skeleton and the memory of the great fight. The calloused hand, inflamed muscles, a constant reminder that age finds every everyone, eventually. The harder we cling the more it stings. What we could once do easily takes longer. There is an appreciation for time and the energy we decide to spend. Two prince palms and outstretched hammock, the perfect invitation to relax and savor the moments. The learned art of relaxation is something to be proud of. Not many can sit back guilt free to listen to the sounds God graces an ear to hear. Or to see the colors beyond the colors, the variations of green and blue. To speculate the grandness of white fluffy clouds just floating by, which are often unnoticed until the storm comes in. Even the storm in its own way is impressive. Deadly as the storm can be, there is still beauty to be found. The leaf that lays dying a bright shade of orange, is victim to the wind, eventually to rest, die and hopefully to grow again. It knows not what it is. It is a story. I think all living things truly know not what they are and quite often not happy with who they were.
I don't wish to collect days in a scrapebook. To remind myself of the good ones nor do I want to relive the past, remembering the bad ones. I have this day. This is a guarantee. There is no pressure, just love, create, and care. Some days are like a fresh page waiting for words. Sometimes the story is silent, building in the heart to become our latest masterpiece. A whisper. A dream. To wake up and remember who played what part and to write until the story is done. Like today. Thank you....
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