Lately, there’s been an increasing sense of being borne along—of being picked up and carried by invisible yet momentous tides.
I feel like I created these currents years ago: heaved rocks onto my bare back and hurled them into the deeps, only to find the stones sinking with nary a ripple.
At some point, I dragged myself back to the shore, bitter and exhausted, as heavy and leaden as the boulders I’d dropped into the heart of the sea.
Now, eons later, the waves have begun to surge, finally stirred by rocks and wind and sun. I stand in the surf, watch the swells, and feel the waters rise up around my legs.
It took so, so long for things to come to this point. And now, even the moon comes to my aid, snagging the tides with gravity’s lure.
Even now, I watch with bated breath. I wait for the wind to die and the sea to calm (as they’ve done so many times before).
I wait to see if the miracle will endure.
And I hope.