Gently... exhale , now,
Breathe out, but slow,
And I sink, if only a bit.
Down into the sea, but never in fear,
Though flat on my back in the vastness of it.
Gently... inhale,
Never panic, never rush,
Only trust, and the rise of my chest, but slow,
Only faith in the physics of fluids and mass,
And I rise again, safe from the depths below.
I rise again, safe, at the interface,
My lips welcome air from the edge of the blue,
My ears hear the sea, still muted and mingled,
With the sound of a voice, and a heartbeat, too.
A comfort, a terror, both in the same,
My regular gentle reminder of how,
The world cannot touch me from there,
In the past.
The sea touches all of me, here,
And right now.
( see also, "the water was a woman" )
I do so love to float in water, "flat on my back in the vastness"... If you fully exhale, then you sink like a rock, but with some air inside, you can bob like a cork. It's meditative and centering, finding this balance between life-giving air and the drowning depths of that which, paradoxically, makes life here possible. But, hey- don't over-think it. : )
