The ocean rocks. There’s probably nothing more poemed about than that, and I’m sure that anything I have to say about it has already been said, but I’m going to try anyway. This Mountain girl is not that familiar with the force of the waves, and it was pretty awesome to watch my girls get all wavy wid’ it. D1 was fearless, and spent upwards of two hours crashing about in the surf. Awesome. At one point she went tumbling into a wave and told me that “the ocean is EPIC” I don’t know where she learned the term, but I know that she is right. D2 didn’t care much for the waves, but she played castle and got buried by her cousins and ended up with a butt full of sand.
Here’s an ocean poem:
Sand makes gods of small children, who build cities, usually ancient and always impermanent, in it. Sand makes gods of small children and small children of grown men and tyrants of real life rulers who capture the shade and the water and what’s below and will not share.
Shame on them.
When the little sand gods put their toes in brave, and feel the universe pulling them out, feel the earth slip beneath their feet, the fear is half and half, half of falling, and half if their own yearning to get swept out to join the whales, the same as the fear of those who fear heights not because of the fall, but because they can’t wait to jump.
These are the small gods, who creep on sandy knees and who are willing to get buried while we, the creeping-on-toward-abyss-bound, fight it always after the play. After the play there are flaunting insecurities that result in ridiculous costumes, and after that play comes the haunting.
Oh, these little sand gods. How they play now, how they giggle, these little spirits in the sand.
Sappy. Whatever. It’s true. Happy Monday!