In the Moment of Waves

We all know that primordial sound of waves on the shore.  The ebb and flow, the never-ending cycles of time, of life.  A metaphor for the womb, for give and take, for life's struggles.

If you were to travel around the world experiencing waves lapping at different shores, would they sound the same?  Or would each have its own unique rhythm on a calm and sunny day? 

A wave crashing on the shore has many different components.  It furls close to shore, and at its loudest, crescendos onto land, where it quiets and then fizzes bubbles for several seconds before receding.  With every ebb and flow, the sea leaves its white latticework in the shallows, which never fully disappears but reforms with the next wave.  Every now and then there will be just a moment of silence, like the space between an in-breath and out-breath.  No two waves are ever the same.

Hearing the waves is a comfort, the sounds recurring over and over. The water brings an energy with it, an encouragement or perhaps an urgency.  There can be tenderness, with several waves merely lapping; lest I become too complacent the next may crash, sending water over my ankles and up to my knees.  The next minute the water, clear and unspoiled, feels like velvet on my feet.

I've been mystified by the crosshatch design left on the sand by the retreating waves.  I cannot understand why it appears that way all along the beach.  The air has a faintly briny smell which is only perceptible when the wind pauses.

Around the rocks is a grand slithering as smaller rocks and pebbles are pulled back with a mighty drag.  And there's a tucking in around the rocks in the gentler ebbs, where the slithering turns into a soft gurgle.  Hearing all the sounds together is a symphony, one that is made up as it goes along.  Sounds I love always and never tire of.

Relating to Mother (Nature)

                                                                        Sedona, AZ

Once up on a time, our ancestors’ survival depended on a close relationship with the natural world.  It was often a matter of life and death, not to mention losing an entire harvest of crops or being overcome by a severe storm when out hunting or traveling. 

Today, many of us today live in comfortable homes and work in climate-controlled offices high above the ground. We may go an entire day without venturing outside, and in the winter, people often arrive and leave work in the dark.  We depend on TV or the internet for news about the weather, and don’t have time or the wherewithal to look up from what’s distracting us to see a beautiful sunset or catch the rainbow after a storm. 

Being connected to the natural world helps us connect to our inner world.  When I work with clients, it’s one of the ways they begin to get reconnected to their own rhythms—they clue in to the natural rhythms of nature.  Walking grounds us.  Watching animals teaches us about who we are as human beings.  The natural world has it’s own sense of order and understanding.  How do the animals know when a storm is coming or danger is near?  First and foremost, they are aware—they need to be for their very survival.

When we are out enjoying nature, all of our senses are heightened.  We breathe in the fresh fall air, smelling the rich soil; we see the changing fall foliage, feel the breeze and hear the squirrels crunching leaves as they bury their nuts.  Our souls respond to the beauty of the natural world.  It stirs something deep inside—we feel awed, appreciative, and a sense of peace and calm.  

Losing our connection to nature is akin to losing ourselves.   Mother Nature supports us in many ways, offering all we need to sustain our physical and spiritual lives.   We need to remember she is there and to seek her out—all year round.