So much lies below the surface of our lives. The public face, a private life itself sometimes even hidden from ourselves.
Yet there are days when the inner ripples surface, like the whitish trails of currents in the sea.
Some days things wash over us; other days they rebound, time after time.
Today not far from the picture included here there were three Southern Right whales, just at the tip of the headland before it swings towards Boomer Beach.
Everything seemed quiet, the wind, sea, my own thoughts.
People walking along would stop, say a few words, look at the whales, walk on again, each in his or her own time. Even their dogs were quiet.
Quietening, its own rhapsody, the roll of the waves, the whales, clouds silent above, thickening, changing, wispy too.
Whales, the memory keepers; the sea, the mother of consciousness, origins, the past, the future trckling through too, the way the waves move, the clouds shape, the stories within us, freed and blocked, freed and blocked.
Currents, ripples, stories, memories.