I go to the ocean. I always go to the salt water to center. The sea is a siren offering me peace for a piece of my soul, and that is a price I will always pay. I sit on the rocks facing the sea. Here I am supported by layers of stone that have withstood simultaneous smoothing and exposure, over centuries of oceanic pounding. The curves of body morph into the crevice behind my back. I lean my head back and up into the sun I go.
I watch as a flock of birds descends upon the expanse of water in my vision. They are the big sea birds, the kind that look like the love-child of a seagull and an Ostrich. These birds dive rhythmically into the ocean. I admire their persistence and their certainty. How do they know there will be fish for them beneath the surface? I decide I will learn from their courage. I too will dive in my own way, in my own life, in this world we share. I might not find fish, but what if I emerge from my dive with wings so light and clean that I can soar?
I smile as each diving bird pulls me deeper into captivation. The sun travels through my skin and to each bird on their journey. I am hooked to these living beings through strands of light and observation. I am in awe of their journey, their delving, their being. Some stop and rest on the surface currents. Perhaps they are full of fish? Perhaps their wings are already clean? Perhaps their electric dives are articulately planned and balanced their soaring, diving, and sitting is mathematically perfect.
Ahh that siren sea—she gets me every time.