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My daily dose of three
pages of longhand sometimes feels like wading through a layer of muck that
reaches up to my eyeballs. Other times it's as exhilarating and terrifying as a
free-fall off a cliff while I count seconds before crash-landing.
I want
to think of myself as being a pretty good listener, but I am discovering that I
might be listening to everyone else except my own soul.
In my head I know I am
safe, but my heart is unnerved by the torrent. I need
a place that would assure this anxious heart that it’s O.K. and calm the rush
of swirling thoughts.
Going to the ocean for
my first artist's date seems most appropriate.
Ocean has always been a dependable
wellspring of safety for me. It never fails to welcome me with open arms, no questions
asked. Not once have I heard him pout,
Where have you been??? Why haven’t I seen you in so long??!
I admit that I tend to say to
myself,
God, I MISS this!, every time I make it to the coast. I must be imagining because in the rumble of its roaring waves I think I hear an echo,
I miss you too. I’m glad you are back.
No cold shoulder. Not a hint of reproach.
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