The sea isn’t always benign, a soft blue blanket, drowsing under a noonday sun and yawning to a horizon of sky and water that melds and melts into a homogenous whole, a universe of soft breeze and the gentle lap of wave and the rhythmic rocking of surf lapping against the shore.
The sea isn’t always kind, sweet breeze breathing salt along closed lids and puckering lips drying in the heat of the golden heat which spills down from a sky which reflects back the infinity of blue and the wisp of cloud and hope which resonates in your breast as you breathe the rhythm of the surf which whispers sibilantly in your drowsing mind.
The sea is capricious and called cruel when cruelty is a human concept, lending meaning to what is a reality of droplets of salt and precipitation, of cold which snakes up from the depths yet unexplored and is comprised of a thousand million cellular realities of death and life and excretion and endless, repetitive rich cycles of life and death.
And I love it for its capriciousness.
And I love it for its gentleness.
And I love it for its rages.
To stand on a cliff, lashed by wind and feel the slash of salt and frigid water against your skin and hear over the cacophony of your thoughts the roar and rage of water lashed into madness by a night which wheels around your head, a kaleidoscope of light and fury which flashes electric in your mind and resonates a great and powerful throbbing in your heart.
To look through the gloaming dusk and watch the waves vomit spume and heave their great levitation bulk against the standing rocks and send fingers of frigid rage into the crevasses and seek egress to the land which defies its might.
To lose the delineation of skin and sinew, muscle and blood coursing through human veins and feel instead your body expand and reach out and embrace and become one with a sky which wheels and screams and sinks into the heaving brine until the moisture and fury of both coalesce and become a great and wonderful terror that one can breathe in and feel explode in realness in your soul…
that is MY sea.
The one which beckons in the furthest reaches of my soul, that fills my mind with green and grey and fluid depths of cool want and need and makes my heart ache with a physically compelling pain that pulls me towards the water that breathes pretence in its pristine, staidness through the towering steel trap of the city.
The lake I watch with jaundiced eyes mimics the import of words as the lake mimics the sea. They whisper pretence and promise yet carry in them nothing of import or genuineness. I remember when the words would capture me in silken strands of yearning, infused with significance and pregnant with substance and sincerity. I see them now in the harsh light of experience, and while the words wend and encircle my heart in pain and ache, I know beyond their utterances is a vapid reality of lies. Lies, I concur, not always consciously driven nor meant to be not truth.
My youngest daughter runs with a set whose parents utter often the words “I love you” – when greeting, when leaving, when seeing and sighing. I do not. Even before my current reality, I always felt truly that hands and heart and action served more truth up than words which can be released without thought or import or true intent. For me love is the doing not the saying. My love for her is in the creation of meals to tempt a 16-year old vegan appetite; in the stroke of hand through hair when a child is weary, in the knowing and the doing and the nurturing.
Words can carry with them a powerful impact, that I do not deny. But conversely, when the words are exposed and become trite, then the impact is more hurtful, more agonizing in the unmasking of the realty of the moment a harsher lesson by far than mere pretence.
I read the words and I feel a great and terrible rage build.For I live the reality and it is not those words.
I want my sea and the lonely aerie of sky and brine and the harsh crying roar of an ocean which calls me to its frigid embrace. I want to leave behind the words which wound and cut me like the sharp jutting reality of rock and cliff against which my sea pulses and tears and weeps salted tears of despair.