Updated: Nov 13, 2021
The sound fills my ears, at once loud and gentle.
The sound of your waves inching toward the sand. It drowns out everything else but not in a way that numbs the senses or pierces through peace.
No, not at all.
Your sound moves too slowly,
And too melodically, to disturb me at all.
You are a musician without even trying.
With every wave and hint of seafoam, with every glimpse at your unflinching endlessness you remind me that you care for me, and for my sadness, but that there are inches of your blue expanse that even I cannot see. When I, so small, stand before you, you appear ever the more vast.
You use this to remind me that no matter how large the stature of my troubles may seem, there is always more I do not know yet, far beyond.
That even though I, too, am blue today, it is not all there ever was or ever will be.
And whatever lies beyond the horizon that I am blind to as of now, I know some of it will be good.
The world is full of such things.
As your waters swirl around my feet and glisten under the light of the sun I grow calmer by the minute. Yes, not even the quiet crackle of a flame or the pitter-patter of rain can lull me. But you can.
I enjoy telling you my stories, like the one where I watched the daybreak with a bird. It told me to remember my blessings always. That day, I learned that gratefulness can set you free. Do you remember that story?
Your azure entirety sweeps forward, close to where I’m sitting, telling me that you do.
Someday when I meet that bird again, I’ll tell him all about you.
At that time, it will soar above, then sweep down below to greet you hello. I will watch as my two friends meet,
The one with wings and the one with a horizon.
The one that watches the sun and the one which envelops it.
The bird that taught me freedom
And the ocean that sang me to sleep.