We have the ocean in common; it's in our blood. The course of life leading to and including human history has been one of migrations and settlements surging in waves over time. Change comes both quickly and fleetingly as colors in the sky at dawn or dusk; it's in our nature to adapt. Hence our worship of rocks.
The coastline is the image of evolution. Its process is our form; periods of relative stasis are punctuated by events that transform the conditions of survival for living things. Ice ages and droughts alternate with a rhythm vaster than we can count, but it's some tidal system, some frequency of fetch or pitch at work. The ocean, susceptible and sensitive to energy, continually reminds us of our tumultuous side.
Salt water and blood are the same. The ocean is found within us as much as it can be seen lapping at the land's crumbling edges. The fertile and dank smell of sea life is ancient, essential, and good. The shadows of reefs keep secrets, hinted at in the garish displays of life set in the pools that fill the bowls carved out of rock. Anemones thriving are revealed by receding tides. Succulents cling to their crags. Everything is precarious and stable. The ocean guides our shape. We are its issue returning to discover our source.
If you go to the ocean in wonder, if you drink its light like wine, then you'll likely agree that glass has never been stained to match its subtleties, different every night, each minute. If you honor yourself by enjoying this transitory beauty, then you pay respect to our world. If you came here from the stars, if you formed this body from dust, dew and fire mixed together with salt water, then you are the mystery standing at the ocean's edge looking out into night.
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