Being near the ocean calms me. The repetitive sounds of the surf are like a heart beat, thumping against the rocks, then swooshing back to the sea. Thump and swish, thump and swish. Standing with my feet in the sliding wet sand, holding my ground against the yanking fingers of the tide, I perch on the precipice between constancy and change. 

There is a steadiness in the promise that even if you drive away for fifty one weeks and forget the shoreline, it will remember to pound the resilient seaboard in your absence. Some people might dismiss it as monotonous. Not me. 

Marriage is on occasion predictable. Tasks I did last month are on my list again today. Interchanges with John that are familiar enough that I could play both parts come back like the waves. 

"bread juice ice cream chips salsa mac n cheese" the text flies back. Isn't that what I wanted last week? And the week before that? Odds are good I will want it next October too.

But another word for monotonous is familiar. I find comfort in knowing, at least the broad strokes, what the future will render up. As I brush up against sixty I can only take so much surprise.