There is something profoundly calming about large bodies of water, the rhythmic nature of waves crashing on shore and retreating back into the ocean or a great lake. Or the almost silent, gentle rolling of water on a small lake, pushed into movement by a slight breeze. Water brings peace. Settledness. It is as if one is stepping out of life. Away from the craziness of things that suddenly do not seem to matter. To a place where time and reality are distant. Nothing of normal life dares to intrude in this sacred space.
“At the beach, life is different. Time doesn’t move hour to hour but mood to moment. We live by the currents, plan by the tides and follow the sun.” ~ Unknown
I traversed to this alternate reality the other day. Ready for escape. For respite. For renewal. For something. I walked for miles listening to the waves, watching them roll back and forth. Endlessly. Squadrons of pelicans silently glided overhead. The occasional solitary brethren divebombed in the waters. I sat for hours. Lulled into peace. Accompanied by scores of seagulls squatting on the beach facing the water. Together we waited, as though in silent meditation before the feet of a master. I curled up in the sand, losing my senses to the waves. Wrapped by the overcast clouds, which whispered of home. Home, they called. As though this was life. This was reality. This was all that mattered. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it is.