Sitting on the porch of our Belize vacation cabana, I find myself happy we decided to pay the incremental price to have our main door open to the ocean. It’s the type of place I have long fantasized about living. Somewhere the crashing of waves would be the alarm clock nudging me from slumber. Somewhere it was possible to come face to face with water first thing in the morning. Somewhere the gentle breezes laden with the fresh smell of water caressed my naked body while sitting on my porch. Somewhere I would be kissed by the sun rising over the Eastern horizon with mind free to accept her wisdom proffered in her luxuriant lips. Somewhere I could grab my pole, drop a line and catch shimmering fish for breakfast, lunch, dinner.
I love water, love the mystery below her diamond sparkling surface, sometimes calm, sometimes tortured, always energized even when appearing tranquil. It is the mystery of woman.
I realized sitting on the porch my first Belizean morning while my wife was still nestled in bed that she is my ocean, she is the home I fantasized. Strong yet gentle. Beautiful in her mysteriousness.
Her very existence imbues me with life from the moment I awaken to the gentle rhythm of her breathing, to her long black hair sprawled haphazardly across her pillow and face. She is the ocean I come face to face with the moment I open my eyes after sleep, the little death. Her breath the gentle breeze caressing my vulnerable heart. Her eyes, the color of Jaguar spots, dual suns from which I draw the inspiration needed to exist creatively. Her body, the pool into which I dip my pole experiencing the life-sustaining intimacy of our love.