I study the way water caresses the shore, the gentle pulse and pull. No thought, just free movement.
The crash of chaos turned soft, like wrapping yourself in a white cotton sheet fresh from the line, cooled by strong summer winds. Fueled by dragonfly wings.
I watch the maps the water creates, a cartographer leaving tales of currents and fresh rain. An old sea.
Open to the sheer beauty, the truth of time and the look in my ancestors’ eyes, how they visit me in dreams. How easily I overlook such meaning. Lost.
It’s become easier to close myself, to bury in earth and walls than to wind toward the sun, trusting growth.
Open like tears that flow down my face each time I hear Moonlight Sonata. The way Beethoven or a forest floor, a waterfall, holding my son’s hand, a bed of ferns just feels like home to me.That kind of beauty, inherent and vulnerable, young yet a lifetime, a library of memories.
A trail of fear lies behind, boxes and parts of me strewn across the country. I return each time, to this shore looking across state borders, always looking west, mountains lining the horizon. Lost in sunsets.
I want to feel the stillness, the calm within the storm. Forget about before or after. Stop trying to determine my own future. Just flow. Water washing over my toes. This simple silent beauty. A quiet connection to it all.