1.2.18

The Medicine of the Upturned Sea

I was almost home this morning when I decided to keep going. Sometimes that happens, doesn't it? You just keep going until you find yourself at the edge of the world. I stopped on the last strand of it, the pale sand, and watched seafoam wash up almost to my feet. I do not love the sea but this morning I had been drawn irresitably to its wild peace.




Waves were crashing against the stone walls, and the king tide filled all but one filament of the beach. I smiled because I know this sea in all her moods, her silver-netted gentleness and her storms. That was where the medicine lay for me - simply in that quiet connection I have with her. I needed nothing from the waters, no weeds or dreams, no bottled words, no rising whale. I only needed to see her, recognise her, and so in some strange way recognise me.

I came home to blueberry scones and tea, and to a book in which the characters said I love you to each other, something I needed after the bleakness of the le Guin stories I'd been reading this week, while rain flew against my cottage like sea against stone.


4 comments:

  1. what you came home to sounds lovely and a bit wild xoxo Su

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  2. Lovely.

    Yes, sometimes I have to keep going too.

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  3. And now I ache for the sea.

    I've been reading Le Guin lately too, and although I adore her work beyond measure, she has left me feeling melancholy. x

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  4. "I do not love the sea but this morning I had been drawn irresitably to its wild peace."

    Knowing you are not a sea woman, it is lovely to hear that you do find times, when you feel peace, there...

    ReplyDelete

MY BOOKS

In the quiet hours, the inbetween moments and the half-light, I sometimes like to write. My books are made from fairytale shadow and old magical songs. They speak about dreams, lost wishes, longing for something beyond the self, and always about love. You can learn about them here.

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