“The sea, the sea, the sea. It rolled and rolled and called to me. Come in, it said, come in.”
We come to the shore, because we’ve been invited.
The invitation is unspoken, unwritten, undemanding. Open—there’s no set time. We are simply welcome, should we want or need to visit.
We hear that welcome call within. A white bird in the wind. Sometimes the invitation beckons with tidal force, and we are drawn to accept: an invitation from the sea.
When we arrive, the salted air reminds us that we are home.
The water greets us, dressed beautifully each time. The air paints itself in the newest shades of whitewash, azure, and blue, fresh for our arrival. As if we’re royalty, or beloved children; our visit long-awaited. No matter how cold it is, the ocean’s burning beauty and familiarity, reminds us that there is a place at its shore for us, always. We belong. We’re kin. We’re not excluded or judged here. We can take off our shoes, and relax. We can sit in the comfy chairs of sand, and feel loved.
There’s no dress code, we can arrive in any state. There’s no mood code either. We can come as we are; in silence or in song, raucous or reflective. Happy, sad, or in-between. We don’t have to pull ourselves together. We can let it all out, whatever it is: we can cry hard, laugh strong, be rowdy, or soak in quietness. We can bring our emotional burdens with us, or leave them behind for a while.
The water doesn’t question our motives, or require us to spill from an empty cup. It simply waits, listens, and enfolds around us. With every pulse of wave, it cools and soothes the edges, of whatever fears or encumbrances we’re carrying.
There are no stuffy rules when we speak to the sea. We can speak in our own way. With movement, or in meditation.
How do we speak to the sea?
We speak to the sea in heartbeats.
The sea speaks back, in sunsets.
We speak to the sea with our head in the sky or our face hunched to the sand.
The sea speaks back, in embrace.
We speak to the sea in the fullness of romance, and the emptiness of loss.
The sea speaks back in the fullness of peace, and the emptiness of judgement.
The water never sleeps, never tires, never rebukes.
We speak to the sea, and the sea speaks back.
In sunlight, in moonlight, and with its song. It laps away at our troubles, until they’re softer. More pliable.
Yes, this unmasking, all-giving, all-mighty conversation is free.
For my children, for my love, for the people and creatures of my heart, I ask only this:
To be sea.