It Might Talk to Me

by bob strating

I am a fortunate man. I’ve lived my life with an urgency that made it possible to, at this point in my life, chuck it all and simply live. No urgency, no worries, and unfortunately, no attachments. I found a little place overlooking the ocean and I spend my days and sometimes my nights walking the beach or often just sitting and watching the surf for hours on end. I’m not sure why. At first I thought it was the tranquility, but I’ve found that when storms come and the sea turns to foam and the waves churn and the salt mist stings my face and eyes, I find the sea equally fascinating. I think maybe the sea has something to say to me. So I sit. And I walk. And I watch. And I try to listen.

There are a few things that are obvious lessons. The power and vastness of the sea and our relative insignificance. This lesson I learned quickly. Having once been the center of my own universe, it was humbling to find myself as a speck in a world so vast I can’t even conceive of it. I’ve watched ships the size of small cities grow smaller and smaller as they drift toward the horizon, only to be swallowed by the curve of the earth. And each of those ships was full of people, who, like I was, think they are the center of the universe. But poof! They vanish in the seemingly infinite ocean. So just how important are all those universes? How important was mine? Oh, I’m not saying that what we do means nothing. A man needs to work. I’m only saying that perhaps we attach too much meaning to things which are really transitory and we should look for value elsewhere.

The second obvious lesson has less to do with the sea than with myself. As I said before, I sit, watch, listen, think alone. I wonder if I would see things differently if I had another set of eyes to share my world. Perhaps someone to point out a seashell while I’m preoccupied with things in the distance. Someone to shift my focus. To show me what I’m missing. And I have a lot of time to think about that; about all the women who might have fulfilled that part if I hadn’t been so distracted by myself. Regrets.

The sea doesn’t give up its secrets easily. That sentence sounded like it came from a documentary on sunken treasures, but it’s equally true in my case. Maybe I’m romanticizing. Maybe there is no meaning out there past the waves crashing on the beach. Maybe it has nothing to say. Maybe what I’m hearing is my own voice. But there are times when I watch and wait and listen that I do hear something in the waves. I do see something in the vastness. Just glimpses. Fragments. A voice. And what does it tell me?

It teaches me about constancy. Though the sea changes day by day, hour by hour, sometimes even minute by minute, it also never changes. It maintains its level, its schedule, its place in this world. The wind may whip its waters into a frenzy. Storms my send it’s waves crashing inland. But it always very quickly readjusts.

It teaches me about balance. There is an amazing balance here on the beach. The sea, sky and earth all share in it. I watch the clouds form over the ocean as the warm air evaporates the waters. I watch the clouds drift over me and often feel the rain pour down on my upturned face. Then a little while later I see the water returning to the sea in the swelling river. Ebb and flow. The circle of life. The great mandala.

There is one other thing I have heard as I sit and watch and listen and that is this: Even in my insignificance in the vast scheme of ocean and sky and earth, I am significant in my own way. I am significant just as every grain of sand is and every drop of water and every bit of air. I am significant because I am here. I have a place. And right now, this is my place.