THE LURE OF THE HEALING SEA

Atlantic Beach, North Carolina

Miles of sand and a yellow flag yesterday, a color seldom seen, marking a calm ocean.  Water temperature is up to 59° and the sand comfortable for bare feet, not blistering as it will be mid-summer.  Atlantic Beach has been a vacation spot for a hundred years, a town of under 2,500 on the Southern Outer Banks chain of barrier islands.  We are here at Pine Knoll Shores again and I'm thinking about those who answer the call of the sea.  People who live not in cities or ocean front high-rises or even newly built waterfront homes, but those who live in those out-of-the-way spots that others dream about.  And where, sometimes, I too get to visit. 

Inner Hebrides, Scotland

Last fall's post-pandemic trip abroad included the archipelago of islands off the western coast of Scotland, a rugged landscape of towns and fishing villages with a history of kings and clans.  My grandmother was a Chisholm and as a child I learned that the Clan Chisholm migrated to the Scottish Highlands in the 14th century.  Our hunting tartan is brown and the dress plaid red. I've waited a long time to see this part of my heritage. It's doubly exciting that one of our grandsons is going to St Andrews University in the fall.   

I remember (once) being on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, at 1,745 feet elevation, standing high above the sea with the water both distant and hugging the shoreline below.  That trip felt like magical realism to me; yes, it was real, but oh the undercurrent of magic.  When I round a corner and hear the long slow notes of a bagpiper standing at the edge of a cliff shrouded by cloud, the fantastical has slipped into my ordinary day. Far out a whale rises up from the deep and I wish I could lift gently from the earth to float with arms outspread like I do in my dreams.  

Cape Bretoners number around 135,000 and for someone drawn to the sea like I am, I can't imagine a place more attuned to nature, with a crenulated coastline, lowlands and highlands rising south to north. Sometimes you're so high it feels like heaven.  

Today on our Atlantic coast the ocean is wilder, white caps all the way to the horizon but still a mild cloudy afternoon. Water doesn't have to be calm to heal us.  The sea's negative ions boost our moods, the rise and fall of the waves relaxes us and the sea releases our feel-good hormones, dopamine and oxytocin.  At the same time, we are restless like the waves.  Scientists (or maybe poets) have called the sea the planet's heartbeat.  I can see that.  No, I'm not one of the lucky who lives remotely by the mothering sea, but I am lucky enough.  Yesterday and today are perfect.  Tomorrow will be too; I'm pledged to that.  Nina Naomi

DEEP INTO THE DARKNESS OF WINTER

The heavens proclaim the Glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.  Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard.  Psalm 19:1

Bogue Sound, NC

A girl raised in the Midwest with no ocean near.

So happy, here, to see sun on water, gently wavering.

Stars in the morning not just at night, more fluid and just as bright.

Sun rising in the east as it does, 

Laying a sparkling path on its road from narrow shore to vast horizon,

A perfect triangle at sea.

The pale moon sets further west, 

Wisp of a moon doing its own evaporating act

Still high in the sky.  

Turtle doves sit side-by-side on the wire, but one has lost its mate.

Soon chased from the pair without remorse, wings whistling.  

Some mornings the sun pushes its way through the cloudy canopy,

Some days an easy ride.

Last night I saw the very same orb drop into the sea at 5:11 to the minute,

Leaving ribbons red and gold across the span of water meeting sky, 

Deep into the darkness of winter.

How do we deserve these miracles? 

                                                       Nina Naomi

OUR PLACE IN ETERNITY

This winter evening, I am strangely alone by the sea.  One thing I notice is that when the ocean is loud, the rhythmicality of the sound is akin to silence.  When you can hear nothing but waves in an unchanging pattern, it can seem like being in the midst of quietness.  This is especially true in that unique darkness that lives at the sea.  I stayed outdoors in my down jacket as long as I could.  Then the chill took over.  Do you feel that we never run out of good places to be?  

Yet even as I write, I am brought up short by the thought of the Ukrainians and others cold or hungry or frightened while I am enjoying the early night, warm in my coat and aware that supper is mine for the making. We know about the "andness" of life.  While some of us are happy, others of us are sad.  We have each been on both sides of that "and" I suspect, although most are not living in the daily presence of war.  

Still, Hanukkah and Christmas are on their way.  They come for those of us in the momentary glow of a peaceful starry night and they come for all who suffer. Perhaps for them most of all.  And of course, what we hope is that even in extremis we can take a moment to look at the stars at night or hear birdsong at daybreak or find a flower in a crack or let the waves give us a place in eternity, and in those ways find hope or consolation.  

Tonight I am thankful and do not want to let that pass.  Good wishes to all.  Nina Naomi    

CONTENTMENT BY THE WINTER SEA

Today the sea is loud. I took Mr. Wiggles for his walk.  He's a malti-poo who was in foster care here when I found him.  So he's not afraid of the ocean, little guy that he is.  Off-leash, that's his treat.  

The noise comes from every direction.  The crashing right in front of me with the gray waves curling up and over, but then different sounds, deeper and steadier to the left and right, up and down the beach. Synchronized.  The air is damp and cool and close.  I didn't need my scarf or gloves.  I hope you're someplace today that you like, where you can have a short (or long) walk or run. Or something to listen to or watch that takes your attention and holds it. Something in nature.  Winter is good for that.  

Mary Oliver (1935-2019) says,

The sea is the most beautiful face in the universe.

She wrote, 

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can sweet-talk entirely.  As I can too, and so, no doubt, can you, and you. 

So I'm content again and hope you are too.  Contentment is richer than joy, that comes in spurts, surprising us.  Contentment I think builds and is more likely to last. It's part of our relationship with ourselves. I'm thinking we can even be content, so to speak, if we're not happy.  There are times, events that we don't expect to be happy about but may still be content knowing that we are doing the best we can, or that someone else is. Or that the unhappiness is a natural part of life. 

When I saw those dolphin leaping, tail and all (Post,"Happening All at Once," 12/8/19), I felt an instant response, a reaction to the moment--happiness.  A kind of giddiness almost.  Today is more serene.  Does the distinction matter?  Both are good.  One enfolds, one lifts.  Both are blessings, all are blessings--joy, happiness, satisfaction, contentment.  And at least this weekend all have been here at the sea, overlapping like the waves themselves.  I didn't have to do anything, just walk the dog and look and listen.  I bet looking and listening is the key.  As we learn in mindfulness training, keeping an open heart.