A young man goes on a run through a city he doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a very good sense of direction. So he stops a woman on street and asks her, “Which way is the ocean?” The woman smiles and points a finger toward the large looking ocean.
He runs and runs. And finds himself in the middle of a pedestrian walk in which there are famous statues that have been reproduced from various ages. Most of them Greek. But some from other parts of the world. And he glides past the statues.
Various expressions of the human body. Of its subtlety and beauty. In the eyes of an artist who could see something others couldn’t. And the young man keeps moving. As he passes statue after statue. Frozen in time. Or perhaps frozen for a time.
Eventually there are no more statues. So he turns his head toward the road ahead. A straight path lined with palm trees that seems to lead to a building that looks like a church. Or is it a lighthouse? He can’t tell really. He just keeps running.
Not in the way that he once did. There are no fantasies of beautiful women watching his amazing stride. Or of Boston Marathons being won. Instead there are just two feet hitting the pavement below him in a rhythm that soothes his mind.
The young man is thankful for so many things. He is thankful for the love he feels. But also for the pain and suffering he has felt. Because it is the compassion he learned through the pain and suffering that helped him to know love. And patience.
He approaches the building in front of him. He still doesn’t know what it is. But it is the only thing that separates him from the ocean. An ocean on the other side of the world. But still. An ocean that he knows well. Because it’s all connected.
He runs around the structure. And he sees the cannon pointed toward the water. Protecting the world from anything dangerous that might emerge from the ocean. And he notices the fog covering the horizon. Covering everything.
He can’t see but a few yards in front of him. Which has probably been the one thing that has scared him most in life. Not being able to see. But something is different now. And he doesn’t take long to figure it out. His spirit tells him.
“This is just fog,” his spirit says. “Not your fog.”
The young man hops on top of the cannon and looks out as far as he can see. Barely far enough to see waves breaking a few feet in front of him. And he smiles. And thanks the universe. And his mother and father. And Carolina. And others who are important to him.
Then he jumps down from the cannon and onto the sand. And walks on the beach through a fog in which it is impossible to see a sunrise or sunset. But it is still possible to see trash on the beach. And decaying beach huts. And a homeless man sleeping beside the decay.
This isn’t at all what he imagined he’d see when he finally arrived here. He imagined a warm, sunny beach where he could plop down in the sand and watch a sunrise. And then a sunset. And contemplate beauty and other stuff. And say, “fuck… what a journey.”
But here he is. On the other side of the world. Standing on a beach filled with fog and trash and decay. And smiling. Because he understands that we have a lot of work to do in this world. But that work can only be done if we choose first. To work on ourselves.
He laughs. And decides that this couldn’t be a more perfect ending. An ending that he understands is just another beginning. Because even on the other side of the world, there’s fog. And a beach that needs cleaning. And needs imagination. And love.
But it’s different over here. Because he realizes, now, that the fog isn’t his. It’s just fog. And that beaches will always need cleaning. And imagination. And love. And that he now has the strength to begin to clean. And offer his imagination. And love.
He picks up a piece of trash and puts it in a can.
And starts running again. Away from the beach.
Back to wherever he came from.