Descended

I love the sun's kisses. From the radiant warmth I feel on my skin to the melanosome glow it leaves behind, I am filled with a sense of peace and serenity. I wish summer could last nine months of the year, so I may always feel this content. In fact, I dislike the late and early months of the year so very much that I have to watch Fools Gold and The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants a hundred times to get through the frigid, depressing winters. Doesn't the breathtaking images of Santorini just make you fall in love with the mesmerizing blues of the Mediterranean?

Just thinking about the coastline of Greece makes me crave the ocean. I often sit and daydream about sitting on the powder of the beach, burying my glitter-polished toes in the countless grains of white, wading in the gentle tide of the day. I long to smell the salty, briny air and to feel the warm breeze against my sandy skin. A few years back, I was carelessly floating in the warm gulf waters of Sarasota, completely content to stay there forever, permitting the gentle swells to sway me back and forth like the soothing glide of a newborn's swing. My father was standing a few yards away from me, watching me float peacefully upon the ocean current, commenting that I was just like my mother. She loved the ocean too, and each return she made to the East Coast was like a family reunion with the sea.

My mother is Portuguese; more than a century ago her family traversed the Atlantic from the Azores and Portugal to start a new life on the American continent. I can only imagine what they felt upon entering Boston Harbor, their feelings of leaving their homeland, their anticipation for beginning a new endeaver in a land of hope and opportunity.

Although I love the land of my birth more than any person cares to hear, I also love the lands of my forefathers. I am convinced that my love of the ocean is in direct correlation with the blood that flows through me, and I dream of the day when I am able to visit the Azores and Portugal to get a closer glimpse of my roots across the sea.

I often like to google the islands of the Azores, learning of their individual landscapes, their dwellings, their history. I descend from a long line of fisherman and farmers. My family owned vineyards on the islands, and I wonder if any of them still remain there, tending to their primitive and seemingly uncomplicated way of life. Most of the "streets" on the islands are dirt paths, the village roads comprised of cobblestone, and the common mode of transportation by horse or mule. Central air is a luxury and there isn't a Wal-Mart within 1,000+ miles.

I keep some pictures of the islands on my computer. I marvel at the simple beauty of the landscape, and imagine the delight of the sun's early morning rays.


Coastline


Port of Horta


Island of Pico


Island of Sao Miguel


A common dwelling


A local vineyard


How fortunate am I to know of my history? I possess a deep love for my family, and desire to learn all I can about the ones who made it possible for me to grow up in this blessed land. I owe them a great debt of gratitude for their courage and determination. I only hope I can make them proud and be worthy of the rich heritage they have so graciously bestowed upon me.