So every year I create a bucket list... I try to come up with absurd things that I think will never happen, and see how many I actually do. In all honesty, I have completed all but one thing on my bucket lists since I have started doing this... and it feels amazing. Here are a few of the things that I have done that have been on my bucket lists in the past: -visit a castle in England (I went to three!) -visit the Leaning Tower of Pisa -visit the Eiffel Tower (France) -learn to scuba dive -scuba dive at the Great Barrier Reef (QLD, Australia) -ski in Colorado -learn to snowboard -spend a summer driving boats -visit Italy -leave the country every year -run a half marathon -learn to surf (I'm not a pro, but when the odds are in my favor... I can get up!) -visit the Great Ocean Road (Australia) -go Whale Watching -climb Half Dome (Yosemite National Park) -study abroad (Avondale College) -graduate from college -make someone vegan -run from Lighthouse Beach to Lake ...
It's a summer night, the sky closes in to swallow another day, and I can feel the sun kissing my back as I walk slowly down this desolate beach. The sand scratches in between each of my toes as I curl them slowly back and forth. The smell of the sea is fresh, and the breeze that flows from it's steady wave is warm, dissolving my goosebumps almost instantly. My hair flows gently into my face and I reach to pull the strands away with a solo finger. And as I touch the surface of my aging skin, I can feel the warmth gather behind my eyes. I hold back a form of flowing water not pleasing to you. But I have to be real. I have to be raw. And suddenly the warm trickle falls down my face. I realise that this time, I am alone. My heart begins to rush, and I can feel it's steady pound trying to break free of my chest. I stop and slowly open my lungs to consume the warm ocean air. I release the deep breath little by little and gain a portion of control once again. My spin...
He sits back in his chair and sighs slowly, almost as if to say he’s satisfied with the feeling of the seated position after a long day’s work. He chooses a particular armed chair in the room, one that is bathed in sunshine in the mornings. He stares off to the right, past where I’m seated and looks out the window as a story unfolds of a life that has been only mildly uncovered. His placid expression and the valleys of aged skin reveal a story of their own before a word is even spoken. He is 675235. He is a descendent of Florence Nightingale. He is Athol James Briden, who says his “memory isn’t as bad after all”, as he pulls together pieces of his life on this warm summer morning in March. The softness of his words flows gently around me. The story of his youth began in Mastodon, New Zealand, where he decided he someday wanted to be a nurse. But a job at the local printers took precedence as becoming a male nurse was rare in his time. “I was work...
It's so deceptively beautiful. :)
ReplyDeletewelcome to the blogosphere
ReplyDeletepretty!
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