fridays mostly we walk the long stretch of beach along the indian ocean with nothing but sea and all that lives it between us and the cold deep south of antartica. we walk with intention – gleaning the dunes and high tide line of garbage, gathering the bits of plastic that we did not want…
it is the ocean who speaks these long days, horizon to horizon, thundering her song across the hills. summoning the tides that course our veins to live enlivened by the salt prayers that shape us amniotic in the ocean of our own remembering, form us pulse of light from the dark waters of our longing.
it took eons to get here step after step since the beginning of time and did we ever choose where we were heading or even know when time began because we can trace where we’ve been but not what we were thinking and it is not like we are here walking in the dark –…
there was a time we knew these things, knew when scrape of sand and pull of wave would meet the wind to fill the sail and breach the tide to taste the salt that spoke a hundred tongues. knew the names of the wind by the way it sang our skin. our bodies have…
and sometimes we wake face down amongst the debris of the tide line, sea grass entangled sun pulling salt skin taut across our bones. there is no knowing our name or how it is we came here but there is a thirst in us and across the mudflats, beyond the driftwood and bodies of creatures…