A tale of two mornings 12/26 and 12/27

• Yesterday was a sleepy, cold sunrise.  Mother Ocean lay like a pond, sliding unbroken ripples onto the sand with barely a splash.  The fishing seagulls didn't even bob.  Though the static, steely blue clouds along the skyline squelched her colors, Sunbella managed two sunrises -- she did a peep show from under a flat cloud, hid again, then blew over the top of the cloud bank in full shine.  The day continued cool, breezy, sunny.
• Today is restless and rolling and gray, with no sunrise at all.  Mother Ocean is churning waves worthy of "Point Break," frothy white and slamming high onto the sand.  The few beachwalkers braving the morning are wading through thick, brown foam on the narrow beach not covered by tide.  A man nearly lost his little boy to the ripping waves, grabbing his shirt and yanking him back while in up to his own waist.  A passerby recovered the boy's floating flip flop.  The palmetto fronds whip wildly in the blustering wind blowing straight off the ocean.  While typing this, the rain starts pelting down, driving the beachwalkers back to their resorts.
• Yesterday I gave in to being sick, passive, going back to bed before noon to sleep as much of the day away as I could, in survival mode just to write and breathe, making myself get dressed and leave my place to get a haircut, returning worn out from the effort.
• Today I woke feeling crappy again, but I plowed on and colored my hair, showered.  Maybe Mother Ocean's wild, untamed fury is inspiring me.  I am dressed, breathing as deeply as I can and being thankful for it instead of whining that I can't breathe, fueled with cold meds and coffee and writing furiously, and working an I'm-going-to-kick-this-crud's-butt attitude.  Maybe this is my turning point to getting well, being a fighter instead of a whiner.