The ocean that raised me
The sea: feelings of awe but also of helplessness, humbleness. That surge of power within the ocean, I can feel it in me. Feeling interconnectedness yet insignificant in comparison; vulnerable and exposed to the potential of disaster. A thrilling feeling; to be confronted with greatness combined with physical expansiveness. On days when the waves are tumultuous, the wonder is amplified.
When internally debating the specifics of where we meet our most authentic selves (see Wild Places post), I discovered I tend to split my natural world up into three: mountains / sea / forest. And what about when a forest meets the shore or a loch halfway up a mountain- somehow, I still separate it. It’s a human thing, to label, categorise, and I don’t fight it. There’s a subtle difference between the sensation of being in these places, what they offer us, teach us, emotionally or maybe spiritually. I’m pondering how to put those different sensations into words.
The ocean’s horizon line, it’s flat and sharp, and sometimes it blends into the sky in a fine shimmer of blue or a thick gloomy fog, or a sparkly haze. I have no concept of how far away it is, though I’ve looked it up several times. Far away enough to feel a pull that I never succumb to.
I realise my eyes don’t often wander to the horizon when confronted with the sea- I’m glued to the shore, where I scan the debris for shells and sea glass, seaweed and stones. There’s the occasional fish bone and jellyfish on the sand and even more unfortunate (location depending), the infrequent but disturbing throng of litter. Searching through the scatters of matter like a treasure hunt without an end goal. The joy of finding just to find. I collect fistfuls of stones, shells and glass and put them back one by one, in poignant places where I hope someone else will discover them. Some, I collect (and I’ll accept any judgement for that). It’s a habit that’s hard to break, dating back to when I was a young child.
I grew up in a seaside town and yet I never once discovered sea glass until I briefly relocated to Scotland. There it’s in vast abundance, not just on the coast, but on the shores of lochs. I collect shells and stones without knowing any names. Childhood years where spent at my Nana’s house admiring the colossal shells with dramatic spines and glossy surfaces (perhaps from places she lived, perhaps purchased with unknown origin, perhaps, she too, had collected them).
Sea conjures up so much imagery- for me this is usually my first thought- pale grey and serrated with frothy waves, a sharp line separating sea and sky, as though a fold. It looks like the ocean I grew up with, the ocean that raised me (the English Channel). How does your ocean compare?
