Sitting on a seashore, seeing the swelling sea, feeling the wetness of the spray of the misty wet waters as they blow up from a wave onto your face, moistening your lips, cooling you off. Listening for the sounds of the sea, for a fish gurgle and some seaweed moving, hearing the rushing of the movement of the waters, repetitively, gargling, stirring, like music played by G-d Himself: to soothe, to keep you in rhythm with all things, to sit and tap your feet to it, to move your body with the movement of the sea, to feel its blue and greenness, to absorb it, to become one with it.
To sit and sit next to the waters, to be sedentary like the rocks at the side of the sea at the shoreline, to sway as the waves come tumbling in, to watch the boats out yonder, as images of stillness as they sail far out to the horizon. To see the horizon remaining still, not moving, not changing, stiffly, securely, stubbornly, stiff-necked, always there, whether you are there observing it or not. A constant, a predictable line, a connection of one place to another, from all sides, from the east to the west, the north to the south. A direct linear progression of sureness, of stability in a line, a numerical counting from a small number to a large number, and beyond, never stopping, never ceasing, from right to left. Eternal.
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