SeaHeart

In some way, shape or form, the sea shows up in my dreams each night, has since I was a little girl. It's as if the Goddess took pity on me, knowing it would be quite a bit of time from infancy until that beloved and often dreamed of house by the ocean in my adulthood. I'm still not even there. So, each night, I'm in the water or on boats, on the shore or flying above it, water, water, everywhere, healing, soothing, beloved--or destroying, fierce, primordial. Either way, it's constant.

My dreams lately have been mutable and often at night. I'm on islands, or in boats beneath a myriad of stars. There are giants of the deep, keeping pace with me, arching glistening backs beneath the stars, sliding through the water almost soundless. I'm never afraid. A kraken's eye blinks at me just beneath the surface, as I dangle sleepy fingers into the ink-black water. Sometimes it's stormy, and great whales keep my boat afloat, pushing with their foreheads against the tiny thing, keeping it above the surface. I'm often with sharks, but I love sharks, and they seem to know this. I'll hold onto their fins, and they'll pull me deep under, where fish glow like fireflies in the depths. Manta rays and turtles keep me stable, let me ride with them. I'm always touching their broad backs or placing a hand on whorled skin. Everything blue, blue, blue for miles, but myself, in that singular moment, fine tuned to this and here and now.

The ocean asks for nothing. It just always is, always carries me and holds me. She could take me back (for we all came from the ocean, She says), but She doesn't. She cradles me in tempest, in starlit night, rocked to sleep on the backs of whales.


by drumsnwhistles