Sometimes I stand on the shore where the waves can just tease my toes. I know I can’t swim that body of water, it is too vast, too deep and too quick for me to even attempt to try and cross to the other side. I can’t actually see the other side from where I’m standing, I know it exists for I have stood there on the opposite shore as well.
I stand on the shore and watch the water in its ageless movement. Most days it is a gentle, soothing caress with soft waves lapping up on the shore. Some days though the water seems angry and huge waves seem to crash higher up the shoreline than usual. On those days, the days when the water is angry it changes color, or at least appears to. Those are the times I stand further up shore and don’t offer my toes to the water for I know it won’t be the gentle caress of the water’s feathery wet touch that I will be feeling, instead it feels like a hard, cold slap.
Beloved doesn’t understand why I am drawn to watching the waves come in or noting how fast and hit the water seems. To him it is just water, a piece of nature we navigate and nothing more. But to me, whether I stand on shore or slip my kayak into its wet embrace, the water is a living thing with many stories still to be told. That is why I stand on the shore or paddle through its width, to hear the stories from an ageless being which shall remain long after I cease to be. Perhaps one day I shall understand what it is telling me, until then I shall dream along with it.