diary of the pathetic .

I crossed land and ocean but it
was never far enough to stop a
reckless soul, aching hands and a
terribly ill-trained heart from pointing north.

You always said you were not the
jealous type, and maybe you're not, but I took a
lover. I took him to numb me and to burn you.

I, who crossed land and ocean to escape
You, who are not the type to be jealous of
Him, who could only guess that his hands were
surrogates
for a tighter grasp and softer touch.

And I could only wonder if maybe you are
the jealous type.

But I haven't heard from you in 113 days,
so I guess
after-all
you're not.

S.

{Photo: Adriano Sodré Flickr}

it's okay .

Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but

         nothing is infinite,
         not even loss.

You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.

by Finn Butler

{Photo: Elmira Minkina Flickr}

Ocean Dreams

"I need to breathe the sea." I said.
He said "That sounds a lot like drowning".

And I laughed because, it is.
It's like drowning backwards. 

When miles of land become a prison. Enclosing. Suffocating. Torture. 

When you can't breathe without the taste of salt and water in your lungs; the wild ocean winds controlling your hair. When it's gotten into your bloodstream - the rise and fall of the tides an addiction you cannot shake. 

"Almost," I said . 

S. 

{Photo via: We Heart It}

Breathe deeply -

I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry 

{Photo:  Adriano Sodré Flickr}

Grasp.

"I think she was afraid to love sometimes. I think it scared her. She was the type to like things that are concrete, like the ocean. Something you could point to and know what it was. I think that's why she always struggled with God. And I think that’s why she struggled with love. She couldn't touch it. She couldn't hold on to it and make sure it never changed."

"Sometimes it's those things you can't touch that you need to hold on to the most."

Carrie Ryan

{Photos: Erik Bockenstette Flickr; via We Heart It}

I can feel home.

I just returned from a weekend in Boston. Boston in the fall.

I can't retell how lovely it was, only to say it was almost as breathtaking and divine and majestic as home. That, of course, was the trouble.

First there were the mountains. Snow capped and beautiful. But that's not what I was waiting for. And when finally I did see what I was after, it took away my speech. The ocean. The glorious ocean. Pulling in late at night, I could see it stretching down the beach for miles, the waves breaking with a fury, the moon as the spotlight. And I could hardly contain my excitement for what the morning would reveal.

Disappointed I was not.

Thinking on it now makes my heart long for it all again. This is the closest I've been to homesick since leaving, because this weekend has been the closest I've been to home. The closest I've been able to relate anything to the lunch hours we snuck down to the beach, or days we hiked to some bright spot, or mornings we woke early to the sunrise. Closest to the crashing waves and boat rides and sea wind.

It was the first time for one girl on this trip. Her first time ever seeing the ocean. And this struck me because I cannot imagine a life without.

A life that never stood out on a jutting rock as the water swelled up, being sprayed with sea mist as the wind blew salty hair into tangles. That never leaned over the dock trying to catch all the white jelly-fish in sight. That never ran in, on a late August night, and watched as the movements made the phosphorescence light up. That never simply sat beside, looking and wondering at everything, because the magnificent expanse could not help but provoke your mind to engage in the beauty and grandeur that lay out beyond you.  

Magic. It has always been. It will always be.

S.

What I Haven't Told You Yet.

You know, I don't like how transparent I am.

The way you know me better than I thought you could; better than I thought anyone could.

And I don't know how you do it. How you see me, and see through me. How you've picked up on the details. (How you'll know, word for word, what I'm talking about here.)

And part of me - a large part - can't stand it. It worries me and makes me feel unsafe, unsheltered. Like I am standing on a spit of sand in the middle of the ocean, at the mercy of the waves and wind and rain that are crashing and howling and beating in around me. Like I am about to be carried away into the deep and unforgiving sea of vulnerability. I don't like that.

But another part of me - and this part is very small - is getting used to the thought. Is considering jumping into the frigid and wild and overwhelming waters and seeing if I don't quite drown.

You make me nervous, I'm sure you know. You know everything, and everyday I am reminded of how little I know. I know nothing.

And we are so very far apart.

S.

{Photo: Theo Gosselin}