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 wood 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’re still a woman.”
I need to breathe. I need to feel
must watch Orion tread among the golden stars, and allow the moon to bathe me from center to circumference.
I must go down to the sea.
I need to be washed.
I need to be new.