Returning to sea

A cool, misty morning, feathered rain a soft, delicate drizzle as I walk along the beach in Horseshoe Bay. The dog sweeps off to the small dunes checking new scents; waves swish close, then further away, closer still, never the same, a Zen-like swirl across the sand.

I remember the stone in my pocket, the one I’d bent towards and picked up on this same beach some weeks back. How when I touched it it felt so healing, embracing, charged with light. I’ve kept it close since, just holding it, having it close to my desk, the bed at night.

Today I feel it is time to return it to the sea, to let it go, not hang on to it no matter how beautiful it has been.

Gently I place it in the water, watch the waves roll in, think I hear the stone chatter, a conversation with water molecules, busy and happy, stories rippling like the colours of the sea, stone, sediments of time.

I’m glad I let go, that this stone has passed through my life, touched me with a grace and tenderness, reminded me of the joy of soul, of connection.

About bydda88

I love poetry, writing, especially writing as healing, as touching the sacred, being touched. And place, places dreaming us, us them. Coasts, rivers, canyons; the ordinary things too, the small things, gestures that reach out.
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One Response to Returning to sea

  1. AJ says:

    This is so beautifully written, as if it is your soul speaking and this the lesson in letting go – of embracing so naturally the offerings, the gifts of life…your writing always says so much more – takes the reader beyond the mundane into the very heart of being, the essence of human existence in relation to the world beyond seeing, being…
    Last week I took the dog to a nearby beach – the tide was out, water gathered in large rock pools in which the dog paddled, while I gathered driftwood and a red burnished stone, no bigger than a pebble, red burnished creation of time, a fragment – I wonder, ‘Is it ironstone?’
    After a conversation – on the front verandah overlooking the estuary, infront of the house, the sandy bottom thrown upwards as the tide receded – about lightning and ironstone, I needed to find a piece of ironstone.
    The first pebble I reached for burnished beneath the mid-morning sun, spoke to me of ironstone.
    Is this ironstone? I wondered on the return drive home. I would photograph it in the name of art, in the name of digital art and post it in hope of an answer, asking as I would of a rose whose name I couldnot recall, ‘Is this a Florabunda? And is it called Angel Face?’
    I’m glad you let the stone go, it heralds the release of the pebble I found on Clairview, the return to that place from which it came only to remain with me for but a time.

    post script: I was flying along the Bruce Highway, the dark grey of day giving way to night, when I checked my rear vision mirror to see a gekko suctioned to the rear window, surfing the world. Several hours later I found the ghekko under the bonnet when I returned home. Now that was a relief – to know the ghekko was not forever removed from its familiar habitat. Similarly the stone.

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