Out on the headland a turn in the weather has brought coolth to the cottage. So much so the windows were opened for a few brief interludes. The susurrus of the waves fills the interior, bringing with it the ticking of insects in the beach grass. The peculiar combination of the two is one of my favorite sounds on this mortal coil. No matter where I am in the world it always grounds me, comforts me, ties me to the earth.
To be fastened to the earth in such a manner is good. Necessary, one might say. The summer has been unusually busy this year. By turns generating exhilaration and anxiety in near equal measures, the resulting stresses have been efficient at cutting the tethers that keep a soul from floating away. The whoosh of the waves and the gentle rasp of the stalks combine in voices that I fancy to be of my ancestors, or perhaps of gods faded from mortal view. They call, they coax, and I feel stronger against the wind.
The sky out there is a mottled silver-gray. It is interesting in its texture, not as monotonous as one infer from the description. It pleases me as it dapples the undulating sea with a subtle, ever-changing surface. It is a hypnotic mirror of my mind that provides its own ballast. This is important, this matters. It is nature herself speaking with an ancient voice to tell me "You are here, you have roots, you will not be swept away."
I am grateful for this tie of ancient blood. It keeps me here, on earth, where I need to be. I will not be swept away.
