Sandy Shores

I have always found the ocean alluring. It is ancient, wise, and patient, and connects all seven continents upon which the Earth's inhabitants make their homes. I love the rhythm of the waves and the soothing way the water glides across the sand; I could spend hours watching the tide ebb and flow, ebb and flow. Part of the magic of it, I think, is that photos cannot in the least reproduce the enchantment of the movement.

When I am at the sea, I find myself meditating unconsciously, breathing deeply, and centering my mind. I begin to glow, helped in part by the rays of the sun stroking my skin. And oh, the exhaustion that fills me at the end of the day from taking in so much beauty and wisdom and greatness leads me into a sleep so deep and peaceful it seems to resemble the ocean itself.

My short trip to the beach was just lovely. I finished reading a book by Paulo Coehlo, the pronunciation of whose name escapes everyone I know, and read half of another by F. Scott Fitzgerald; a new goal is the intention to read as many classic books as I can. I floated with the waves and got sand between my toes, fed seagulls, and turned pink; and though I enjoyed enjoyed every moment spent on the shore, I miss it and look forward, as I always do, to meeting the ocean again.

And your comments while I was away, my dear readers, brought such a smile to my face when I returned; you are so sweet and kind and so very, very loved. Did you know?


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