I bike against the wind to reach you,
knowing you’ll be there as you’ve always been;
knowing you’ll be there after I’m gone.
And there you are, as I walk cumbersomely through the deep sand,
to reach where you meet the dry, human world of mind over heart.
I walk alongside you, listening to your constant voice – a steady, calm voice
that whispers with each lapping wave
that I am normal, and small, and a part of you.
And as I walk away from the bustle of children and dogs playing in your spray,
the stress of my life disintegrates in your sea air;
the hangovers and loss and anxieties of life come up and reach my smile,
and I exhale all of it as I watch my shadow walk on your sand.
You play with me,
throwing jelly fish on your shore so that I may have a look at their oddness
and let me walk on your shells, loving the crunchy sound they make under my feat.
I look up at the sky – the clouds blowing by as great clusters of seagulls sail in place along the coast –
whether they’re hunting or simply enjoying a spin in the wind,
I don’t know.
Sometimes I’ll strip when no one is around, running toward you and letting you shock me with your coolness.
I dive under your surface and float on my back, letting your waves caress my body,
rocking me into a blissful state that only you can bring me.
And hours later, I drink a warm cup of coffee in the next village over with hair wild, face windblown, shoes caked in wet sand – I have become more of you.
I look out at you from a place of humanity,
promising that I will return again soon.
Thank you for this day, sea.