This entry is from the heart. This is from the most special place I have, which I offer to you modestly. While this is small, I offer this because this is all that I have.
Can you see this?
This is my place. Right here.
Please allow me to explain:
This is my church and my sanctuary.
This is my place of healing. More to the point, this where I come to cast my secrets to the outgoing tides. I call this place mine but I understand that I do not own this, per se. However, this place is mine as much as it can be.
This is where I come to let the sound of the gulls, and the crying birds that circle above, act like the choir of the sea.
I view the crying seagulls like the peaceful organ players at church. Holy, holy, holy for though are with me. Or so I hope.
I take this in like the quiet entry into an empty chapel. I wish you were here with me while I walk beside the ocean. I walk along to feel the sand beneath my toes, and I listen closely to the waves that come in and crash upon the shore.
This is my place of peace.
The waves come in and out, same as the tides.
I listen closely as the waves rise to a crest and then fall, crash, and then the waves hiss before the waters return to the sea.
I love this sound.
I hear this as an earthly representation of Mother Earth as she breathes. This is her, The Great Mother of All. This is the sound she makes —breathing.
I am so very small. I know this.
I am small in comparison to the size of the world or to the size of our so-called life, which is both far bigger and much smaller than we assume. Yes, I understand that this is a contradiction of terms. I understand that life is the same way. Life has its moments when we rise and fall. Like the waves, we return to the sea — figuratively speaking, that is.
Can you see this?
This is the beach. Or more namely, this is my beach. This is my place. This is the one place where I can stop, drop, and let go.
I can confess my sins. I can confess my dreams, and speak about my wishes and let this go.
There is no compulsion here. There is no off putting or offsetting distractions of an otherwise environment where people intrude and push or shove.
No one can hurt me here . . .
This is my place.
I can walk here. I can think and I can heal, if I choose to.
I can come to a peaceful treaty with my internal narrative and create a truce between me and my insecure whispers.
I can allow myself a reprieve, at least for a while.
As momentary as this may be, I can be me for the moment. I can do this without worries and without the concerns of “being enough.”
Do you understand?
I can feel my feet as I walk along the border between the land and the sea.
I feel the wetness of the sand and the tips of the ocean when the edge of the waves reach their furthest point. I feel the waters touch my legs at my heels, before pausing with joy, and then going away.
I do not know when I first came to this beach. I know that I was very young. I was small. I remember coming here on New Year’s Day with my Father.
I remember when my Father, The Old Man, took me here to begin a yearly tradition.
We used to come here when I was young. I was tiny and my little legs had to run just to keep up with my Old Man’s stride.
I used to make sure to step in at least one of his footprints so that one day, I can follow in my Father’s footsteps and be more like him.
I wonder if I did that.
I love this place. I love this place the same as I love my Father. I love this the same as I love my Mother who both exist in spirit alone.
I cannot send them letters or call them anymore. They left no forwarding address when they left this world.
But somehow, I can come here at the edge of the land and leave my thoughts like a message in a bottle.
I do this.
I ask the tides to take these things from me.
I ask with my mouth and from my heart and I confess with hopes that somehow, Mother Earth can hear me and answer my prayers.
I come here to appeal to the courts, so-to-speak. I come to make my appeal to The Blessed Mother, Mother of God to pray for us (or me) as sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
I come here to ask The Father, and The Son, and The Holy Spirit to have patience with me.
Please, be patient with me.
You as well.
I only know what I know and much of this has been taught by misguided lessons that were taught to me by unfit teachers who passed their unfair torches of misinformation.
I am only a student and as old as I am, I am only a child. I am an infant in comparison to the span of time.
I am far from timeless, yet my truth is timeless. My heart and my soul and the depths of my dreams are always aging and always moving.
I love this place.
There is nothing imperfect about me here. No one regards the way I speak. No one talks badly or says an unkind word. No one regards my insecurities or follows my weakness to use this against me.
Everyone needs something like this.
Everyone needs a place to go so they can lay down their weapons and rest their injured warriors.
I need this place. I need this the same as I need you.
I need the redemption of my church. Like the celebration after mass when people turn to say, “peace be with you,” I can share the same sentiment and return the kindness by saying “and also with you,” and with your spirit.
I am not Godly or Godlike. I am no different from the average sinner or the anyone else with dirty secrets.
I am a person who is aware of myself. I am aware of the wreckage of my past, which is behind me now. Although, I have to admit that I can see how my past looks to stay in touch with me.
My past reaches out by sending me little postcards of tiny reminders that take me back to a time that is less desired.
I do not have any other place that I can regard as warm or as loving as this beach.
I have nothing else this sacred to my heart.
This is my place.
This is my heart and this is my truth.
This is my soul and this is my word.
Blessed Mother,
Let me find peace. Let me feel your grace the same as I feel the wind across my face.
Let me breathe like the waves.
Let me be sure that my heart and my faith is directed safely.
Let me look out to the sea and find my source of redemption and please, let me share this (with her) so that she knows where I am and where I come from.
Let her know that my love is not perfect. And I, myself, am far from perfect.
I know . . .
let her see me as I am now instead of how I have been before.
Let her know that I come here as me, a small but gentle warrior, too tired from my old battles and looking to find my home — peacefully and justly, and hopefully let her become my love.
But more, let me become true.
Let me let go.
Let me rid myself of my sins, not to be absolved or forgiven or justified to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.
No, I have to be worthy of this the same as I have to be worthy of her.
Let me stand here on your shores and confess with all of my heart and with repentance so that I can free myself from my own hell.
Mother of God,
Pray for me. Teach me to stop, drop, and let go of my unwanted details so that I can love her and meet her halfway.
Let her love me as if I am brand new, just like the sun as it rises in the palm of your horizon.
I am only a man. I know.
But with all my heart, please . . .
Be patient with me for I know not what I do
(sometimes).
The Written Addiction 