As a native Californian, I will always bear a secret resentment against any geographical location that's not near an ocean. I was overtly resentful when I lived in Kentucky. Here, I've pretended I've resigned myself to an oceanless life, and repressed my longing for waves and tides.
But I noticed the wind here. It obeys the same, basic principles as the ocean. It has tides. Oh, they're not regulated so much by the moon and aren't as predictable. But the motion of air here crecendos at times and then relaxes into gentle movement.
The wind sounds like the ocean. Right now, the wind is lapping at my window curtains with the same ebb and flow of foaming water in a high tide pool.
I can stand in my garden and feel myself emmersed in an ocean of air. I can see currents move tree tops and blown trash in directions overhead that differ from my experience on the ground.
I still miss the ocean. I miss salt in my nose. I miss feeling my skin rejoice at ions and molecules.
But I'm learning to let go the resentment.
And I hope to be near the ocean again, some day.
Someone just gave me some sea shells from Martha's Vinyard. They're nice, but it's not the same. For one thing, it's Martha's Vinyard, y'know? A place where I couldn't afford a sandwich. ANd I don't know the Atlantic. I was on intimate terms with the Pacific; it's Home to me.
Still, in the ribs of scallops and the swoops of oysters, I see something familiar, if distant, if dead. I touched them to my tongue, looking for a hint of salt. But they're neutral as bones or stones. They're too far away and long ago from their origins to whisper much to me.
I put them in a paint bucket of tomato plants, for now. Someday, they'll be wind chimes.
The air here moves, leaps and swirls. It pushes and shoves. It's as alive as any ocean.
It offers no moisture, no mist.
But it refreshes me to feel the planet breathing.
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