ocean lessons

I slip out, quietly from the stale air of the bedroom I am sharing with my sister, and, pajama clad and barefoot, tiptoe out, the front door squeaking. The rocks turn from sharp to smooth beneath my feet. The air is fresh, full-bodied, filling my body with the notion that no life can be as lovely as this one, and wouldn’t I please stay a bit longer? I dig my toes in the sand, then pat it smooth, and stare out at the expanse of blue like glass, topaz stretching as far as I can see, a mirror of the cloudless sky. The waves, with their frothy fingers roll in, endlessly, endlessly satisfied with their good work set out for them to do. They’ve been here before, they know what is coming, they go on, rolling in and out and in again, a rhythm of peace inside their work. How do we know when to keep working, and when to rest? I ask them. You’ll know. Just watch, they say, which seems to answer all my other questions, too. O, maker of oceans, designer of purpose and peace, teach me also to be slow, still, to fall into the rhythms of the ocean, unhurried, full of purpose. To say what is necessary. To love what is good.