I must go down to the sea. I must.
Perhaps it’s the combination of grit and smooth, cool and sun – warm on my bare feet - my human feet connecting with the sands of a thousand years that puts my life into perspective.
And wading slowly into waters that have touched many shores and ships and tickled toes and washed over driftwood to cause a metamorphosis from dry limbs of trees to form a piece with its own story. Maybe it’s the damp ocean wind that blows away the cobwebs of the part of my mind that guards my soul.
I can stare at the horizon for hours, and not see it as an end, but a beginning.
As each wave encircles my legs, I feel caressed by newness.
Salt in ancient days was a purifier. Maybe that’s why I come away feeling clean – with fresh hope. My feet need to slap against time and age, and affirm and realize I am still here.
The sea mist anoints my face to say “you’re still beautiful.” The ocean breeze needs to caress the exposed parts of my body and say “you are still woman.”
I need to breathe. I need to feel.
I must watch Orion tread among the golden stars, and allow the moon to bathe me from center to circumference. I must.