I watch the waves break, one over the other. They start far out, moving closer to the sand where I’m standing. There is no sound outside the crashing of these white capped waves; the pull of the water. There is a salty stickiness against my skin, the humidity becoming more familiar to me. The wintery dryness of my hands left them cracking, bleeding. I dabbed at the knuckles on the long flight over, worried I’d bleed on my airline seat. Today, they still catch the fine fibers of the couch I’m sitting on, but I haven’t bled.
I am still tossed against the rocks of my expectations, finding ways that my heart breaks and my words get caught. Stay open, feel the breeze. I have to remind myself of this – sometimes even moment by moment. I beat myself up, thinking this should be the easiest place in the world to hang loose, to stay open. But no matter how far, I bring myself – the whole package, all the bits, including thr neurotic ones. Reminders to stay open are required, even 6,000 miles from home.
In what ways does travel heal? In what ways do I stay open to what is around me?
PS: Picture to be added when I get back :-)