Every year, I do my best to visit the ocean. There’s a spot I know well, which usually doesn’t have people, but any place you feel comfortable will do.
Go into the water as deep as you are comfortable, and look out at the waves. Feel the sand shifting beneath your feet, and the currents around your legs as the waves move in and out. Take a deep breath and fill your lungs with the smell of salt and seaweed.
Sing. It doesn’t have to sound good. Don’t even think about how it sounds, it doesn’t matter if you forget the words. Sing the song that’s been stuck in your head for a week. Sing every song you know, and every song you wish you knew better. Sing until there are no more songs left in your head. And then, when you’ve exhausted the music of people, sing something else instead.
Open your mouth and sing the notes of the waves as they crash around you. Sing the pattern the foam makes on each crest and ripple. Sing the shape and the glimmer of each swell, and then sing the depth below it, the swirling sand and the stones and the shells. Sing deeper, the darkening water and the seaweed and the fishes and crabs. Sing farther; the untouched stretch of the deep sea, the deep blue intelligence singing back with you.
Sing until your voice is indistinguishable from the music of the ocean. Sing until your legs have gone numb from the cold, and you’re buried to the ankle in sand and suction. Feel the warmth radiating from within your body, even as the salty air shivers across your skin.
Sing until you do not need to anymore. Sing until peaceful silence takes its place. Linger in that silence for as long as you can. As long as you need to.
When you leave the beach, take that deep stillness, that comfort, that peace with you. Bring it inside your heart and know it.
The ocean is always there when you need her.
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