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.