When I was a kid, someone told me that when it rains,
it means that God is crying
I figured, “This must be where the sea gets its salt.”
Maybe this is why I find comfort in the tides.
Maybe I come here to weep too.
Maybe this is why I love the anonymity of the shore:
each wave comes in to wash the sands
and each wave goes out
(to take away our secrets).
The tides are always giving, always taking away
This is life…
This must be the way Mother Earth breathes.
This must be part of the cycle, like breathing.
Sometimes the chest is high and sometimes the chest is low.
I suppose all we can do is ride the waves
when they come.
I prefer the beach when it’s empty, like say,
in the wintertime when no one else visits.
The only body to contend with is the body of water
which covers the Earth.
There’s no shame. No comparisons to anyone else.
No need to feel unfit, misshapen or out of shape.
There is nothing to contend with, whatsoever.
And I’d rather it this way,
it’s like a remedy; like a church without the restrictions
or the contradictions of man or mankind.
The beach understands though.
I can tell by the indentation of footsteps.
I imagine the sands are there to absorb our footsteps.
I imagine the outgoing tides are there to wash away our sins.
The sounds of overhead gulls are there to echo our cry,
to understand, and should we have truly sorrowed,
then at last, we shall be absolved.
I come here sometimes, to the beach
to see, to think, to talk and to listen.
Even if only in my mind.
I envision this place, which can vary sometimes,
depending upon my emotions (of course).
I like to see the early morning sunrise here.
Ever watched the sun come up from the beach?
It’s a good thing to see.
I’ve done this before.
I broke away from the pack.
Ever stand in the sands while wearing a tuxedo
from the night before?
I drove straight from a wedding and an after-party
just to find someplace that makes sense to me.
I’ve been celebrating this tradition for years now.
Not the tuxedo, so much. Just the beach.
Sometimes I wonder about the outgoing ships.
I’ve stood on the shore
and I’ve wondered about the tales of the fishing boats.
Sometimes I wonder about sitting in the wheelhouse of my own boat,
as if this were me,
fishing offshore, or sitting in my captain’s chair, and floating,
drifting like a tiny speck on the face of the ocean.
Sometimes I look out to the sea.
I look out and I wonder.
I wonder about the distance between myself and the ever after.
Or if there is such a thing . . .
I thought about life while standing in the sands.
To be honest, I’ve thought about everything here
I have given my confession here at the shore.
I’ve told my secrets to the sea and,
I’ve let the wind take my words to wherever they need to go.
I have spent hours at places like Point Lookout, New York
or on the beaches in Fort Lauderdale,
once on the Island of Maui and once in Kauai;
a few times in California on Imperial Beach to be exact,
and of course, there were several occasions at Long Beach and Jones Beach too
which was like home to me for different reasons.
I spent entire mornings here,
speaking to the sky but saying nothing.
I go to the beach because there are times . . .
it seems like I can’t say anything to anyone
but yet, here,
at least I can tell everything to someone.
What I mean is I have found myself here
and at the same time,
I have lost myself here as well.
There is no judgment in the sands
…….I like that.
There is no memory in the waves either.
She knows though.
She understands too.
she just doesn’t say anything.
The Earth, The Mother
or the ears of anonymity.
They hear everything.
They just don’t tell anyone.
Little kids build sandcastles in the sand.
They put them together beneath the sky at the edges of the sea.
Above them, heaven smiles back and in return
the sun warms them with branches of sunlight.
Behind them, are their families
and in front of them, this is the ocean.
This is a metaphor; this is a symbol
this is us, just trying to find a piece of sunshine
trying to find our way
trying to make sense
and trying to recreate this thing we call life.
This is a message:
For God so loved the world that he washed it with his own tears
and gave us this
The Ocean . . .
The Beach . . .
A place to play beneath the sun
or to find solace when winter comes.
Either way, I’m grateful.
Daddy, what is Heaven?
It’s where angels live.
From the smallest section,
light grew and darkness drained into bright floods of you.
This is called birth.
This is called understanding the reason for my birth,
which is you, regardless to where you are
or where you sit, in proximity to me.
Your eyes are like little evening skies
and you, you are the mystery of heaven to me
you are a sign of the times
You are what I call purpose.
You are the reason the world revolves
or why any of us exist,
because whether it is you or me, together,
all of us are the feet that run this conveyor belt,
which I like to call Project Earth.
In fact, you are the gravity of Earth and that, which keeps me grounded.
There is a purpose now.
There is reason and suddenly –
I don’t ask as many questions.
Life makes more sense to me.
I have forgiven my trespasses.
I hope there are those who have forgiven
when I have trespassed against them.
I am pieces of all the above.
I am pieces of a broken poem and sometimes,
I am part of an incomplete prose,
which may or may not just be unwritten.
Who is to know?
I have so much more to say to you.
I have so much more to do.
Sometimes, I just need the tides to come in.
Then I need them to go out.
To cleanse me like the shore
And take my unwanted sentiments out to sea.
I call that peace.
I call this my sanctuary.
Do you see?