Womb Memories

I stand on the edge. There is the sand, sky, sea and me. Heals sink in with each retracting wave. Pulling me out one grain of sand and salted sea at a time. Clouds shift overhead. The light bright then dim. The silent rhythm of drifting clouds. Accompanied by the arrhythmic percussion of the sea. Ocean crashing into quarts fills my head. 

I inhale tasting the air. Salt. I feel called out - teased. The pull of the tide entices me in. I want to be underneath its power. Tumbled into the breaking apart. Smashing into the earth. Like when I was small. A rag doll caught in a spin cycle. Sand burns and salt tingling bony edges. Delicate flesh brutal water. Air locked lungs. Released. Gasping for life. Feeling so alive. Afraid of what could have been. 

I watch the sea pulling itself together curling up from underneath. Retracting then swirling into a spiraling cone that is tilted onto its side. Spinning forward away from the horizon. Shattering down, spattering into millions of parts. All the same sea. Fallen raindrops held in an orbicular volume.

I feel gravity holding the sea in its place. Each wave resilient against its force. The constant friction, the evaporation, the release, all for the continuance of blue. Glittering faceted light dapples the seemingly calmer waters in the far distance. Arched against a bending line the earth's roundness made visible. The invisible moon tugs. The earth spins. Waves curl. 

I move outward. There is always the chill of wet. Sudden temperature change. Water lapping up against dry skin shocks the senses. Still, I wade forward forcing my way further out. The sea climbing up my body. I know it's power the sea could take me. I focus my breath to quiet the panic, nerve endings screaming, mind racing. The Sea...

I fall. The earth slips out from beneath my feet.  The pull of oceans is strong - hungry like it wants to consume me.  Let go. I give in and float rather than fight.  Toes bob up, out in front of me. Relax into this new body that is not mine. The rhythm rides me, cradled in salt drenched in sunlight. Feeling more whole than I ever do land walking. Must be womb memories.

Me at St.John, Photo by Laura Kliman

Me at St.John, Photo by Laura Kliman