Even my drive to work was filled with awe and wonder, or perhaps it’s just my perception.  I live in South Santa Cruz County and usually worked in North Monterey County.  My dawn commute was often the raw material for art.

Most days I drove past Elkhorn Slough and the rolling pasture lands and artichoke fields. Bathed in first light, the Slough is a flawless mirror. Motionless egrets stand upon their reflections, and water fowl leave silent, perfect Vs as they glide upon the water. The color of the water slowly changes from the long to the short spectrum as the sun climbs over the hills and through the morning mist.

The sun rises over Fremont Peak, flooding it with the red and orange glow of morning. Translucent mists hang softly in low pockets, filtering the morning light through veils of lavender. Gentle hills undulate away like verdant ocean waves. Flocks of migrant birds are silhouetted against the morning sky.

The early light illuminates the beach dunes in sharp contrast. The dark, motionless ocean creates a knife edge at the horizon. The winter air is cool and still, and when there are clouds, they become kaleidoscopes of saturated color.

I was so enthralled with this massive, natural production, that my destination became superfluous. Each morning was a poem, a photo essay, an art gallery.

I think back to a morning when Freedom Blvd. near Corralitos Rd. was in deep shadow as the sun crested the hills. Only the telephone lines were lit, and they seemed endless fluorescent tubes or huge strands of fiber optics.

Even now, when I no longer commute but simply wander, each day the show is new and unique. Each day it takes my mind to fresh fields of wonder. The grandeur of the scenes makes the lines of cars and the dabs of human construction seem almost invisible, as if they were placed as counterpoints, geometric elements to balance the composition.

I look south at the dark line of Monterey and Pacific Grove, and beyond at the charcoal outlines of the mysterious Santa Lucias. The bay is ringed with hills and mountains, a great salad bowl and wild bird bath.

This morning the scene was particularly intense. I’d been to San Francisco the day before, and the warm weather had flooded the beaches and open spaces with humanity. People walked, biked, ran, drove and parked everywhere. There was no respite from the wave of moving humanity. There was no corner of serenity.

Where I grew up, in Southern California, scenes like those that greet my mornings had disappeared decades ago. The mornings there assault, rather than greet the commuter. Beauty is canned and sold as admissions tickets. Serenity is found in dark bars during happy hour.

I know there are other places as inspirational as our piece of the Central Coast. The coast north of San Francisco is magic, as are places in British Columbia, rural Hawaii, Maine, and Costa Rica. There are even inland places, such as parts of northern New Mexico, that can set the mind spinning. However, I’ll put our little slice of paradise up against anything the rest of the world has to offer.

I only hope others see what I see as they travel down Highway One. To be blind to the beauty there is to miss something money can’t buy. To be oblivious to these natural blessings is to not notice their loss until it is too late.

It is a gift to live in a place you love, and it’s a fortunate state of mind to truly love the place in which you live.  I’m twice blessed each morning of my life.