February 1, 2018

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...

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