There’s a blue when I turn at the cliffs. Sweeping me up like a baby. I fall steeply into the arms of blue. Opalescence. Luminescence. This is the half-light of my dreams.
The rumble of waves wakes me. The boom and the roar. An ancient call, howling from the corners of the horizon. The kind you cannot refuse.
I grab my blanket, an empty journal and two pens. Wrapped in a chair on the porch, like a nest on rock ledge looking out to the blue. The morning tilts gently into sight. The scent of eucalypt somersaults in the crispy breeze.
The air is birdsong and loveliness. Sticky with salt and the promise of rain. I haven’t been this still for years. In rapture with the blue.
I am far from home. Far from where my young children sleep. It is the first time I have left them since they were born. It is only for a weekend. Only for a moment to myself.
It strikes me how they take up my thoughts even at this distance, even when I am in this bliss. My children are not unlikeable. There is no resentment. But the clamor, the exhaustion, and the responsibility are heavy stones. I’ve been treading water. Sinking deeper every year.
It seems I am washed ashore now. Picking up fragments of myself like a beachcomber. Aching to find how they all fit together again.
So I look into the blue. So majestic. So wise.
I ask questions. How do I get there? What do I do?
Blue, old friend. I see you. I see your wildness. I see your delicate drops and your terrifying depths. I see your comfort and your catastrophe. I have lost my way, but I can hear you.
I listen and wait.
Write boldly. Write softly.
Write every trembling cord in your throat. Write every curve of your heartchamber. Write every stretch of your wingspan. Write until you glide.
I take the stones out of my pocket. One by one.
I’m as light as sunshine. Streaming over the ocean. An arclight on the water.
Why hadn’t I stopped to listen before? Why had I forgotten?
I shake off of my blanket, stand up, and take in every last detail. The slope of green tumbling into the ocean. The jagged edge of headland. The silky web of seaspray.
I breathe in deeply and know.
I will return home. I will nurture tiny souls. But there are things I will remember now. I will remember how I fit together. I will remember my compass point. I will remember how to swim. Yes, I will dream again.
I turn around to step back into the house. In the glass door I catch my reflection. Behind me there is an infinite stretch of luminous blue. And it holds me. Like a baby.