Bloated in the stomach a day after a Jewish Fast Day, like a bloated fish thrown up out of the waters upon the sandy shore, just rolling into the sand kicked by wave after wave, taking all the kicks as the water washes off the dirty sand, a fish out of water, coming back to life as his gills take in the O2 and he finds his habitat under the water again.
Seashells breaking under the weight of my feet as I stroll on the shoreline, crunching and cracking, being aware of every seashell, avoiding them so they stay as whole pieces, not cracked not destroyed.
Kicking and spinning rocks, polished and smooth, rocks with the wisdom of billions of years, as they age gracefully baking under a hot sun and dipping into cool waters.
Seeing a horizon out far away where the waters meet with the sky, seeing it obscured in a fog or on a dark night, knowing that the world does not end there, that it circles around as a ball, a horizon is deceptive not ending the world. A horizon that lifts up floating boats, that is a straight line from point A to point B, a place to wonder what comes next, to imagine there is more than what just meets the eye.
A seaside meditation made with the eyes closed, swaying to and fro in a canoe, waters seeping in but not drenching, not drowning, waters all held back by a controlled tide, waters to whet and moisten, waters that tell a story with every giggle of every wave.
Learning and teaching from nature, natural occurrences: fish that talk, water waves that sing.
In complete awe of it all, never needing more than the Old Man Of The Sea, sweetly singing my beloved Song of The Sea.
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