The roar of waves crashing. The grind of sand between my toes. The fresh ocean air filling my lungs. The feel of salt water as it dries on my skin.
For all of the questions I have of home, this much I know: sitting on the edge of the ocean’s tide, I find the closest to an answer I’ve ever known.
On the shoreline, I find my place. My soul— cradled in the lullaby of the water’s song— wakens. The tremble and energetic movement of the earth is palpable to me.
I join its symphony, folding into the wind as it rustles the palms high above.
It is here that I am most reflective. Here that tethers me to the place of my birth. Here that invites me back to the spiritual connectivity of college life. Here that reminds me of the unyielding despair of my crisis into adulthood. Here that informs the core metaphors of my understanding of life today.
The beautiful thing is this here can be any stretch of deserted coast. I returned to one this weekend when we went to Portete, an island in northern Ecuador.
Walking back from our work project today, we came to the water’s edge right at dusk. Haze blanketed the sky with light peeking out at the end of the clouds where the sun’s rays reached toward the horizon. It was low tide, giving the illusion we were even with the horizon and the stretch of water, glassy and calm before us.
Feeling an overwhelming urge to dance, I wandered from the group a ways. I looked out at the expansive water before me. Connecting to the expanse within, I moved.
I danced on the shore, the rolling tide tickling my feet. I remembered a line from my favorite Rilke poem: I want to mirror your immensity. I heard my song that this prose inspired.
I felt Immense. I returned inward, to my home.