Fear of Flying

The sound of the ocean creeps in through the crack in the door. There’s something perfect and calming that feeds my soul whenever I am near the ocean.

It is always the same for me.

Its waves hit the shore and my heart slows. It relaxes. It lets go. And in letting go, it remembers. It remembers the part of me that calls to it. It remembers that I am not my work. Or even my writing. It remembers that I am part sand and part water.

And then it forgets.

Forgets about cell phones and deadlines and Wifi and even breakfast. It forgets what life was like wherever it is I came from.

It has been a full moon, and this is the only cure for it, it would seem.

The curtains are being sucked out the door toward the ocean, as if they too are being drawn. As if they too want to go travel the tides and become a part of its depths once again. “Take me with you!” they cry, and if they weren’t attached to this building they would be free. They would fly out to meet the water, to travel the winds.

We are all so attached. We are all so afraid of flying.

My heart was not built with that fear. It was built with others though. Many others. Others I have had to overcome. Others still that I can’t seem to define. But this much is clear. Every time I come to the ocean I leave something behind. Something I don’t want and I won’t miss.

Something I never needed to carry.

I leave the rocks that weigh me down. I leave them for the ocean to pound against until they are small enough to be carried back into its depths to become beauty on someone else’s shore.

The ocean is the perfect lover.

I surrender to it everything I am, and in its arms I become everything I need to be.

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