An Ocean's Wisdom

An Ocean’s Wisdom

I stared out at the waves, mesmerized by the unfailing, constant ebb and flow.

The ocean never quits.

The hazy marine layer was slowly evaporating, and a patch of blue sky lit up the waters like a Christmas display, glimmering and gorgeous and infinitely fresh.

The ocean never ages.

The ocean had always been my closest friend, but today I felt shamed by it. Me. A quitter. An aging musician and writer who never hit that pinnacle of success.

God knows I tried. I wrote hundreds of songs. Produced a musical. Wrote a stack of books, from memoir to fantasy. All sitting neatly nowhere, for no one to hear, see, or read. How sad.

The ocean listened to my heart as I sat on Magoo Rock, dangling my bare feet. Soon, the tide would chase me off.

As a child, many more times than once, I’d been so engrossed in my conversation with Mother Ocean that I hadn’t noticed the tide coming in, and had to dive in and swim to shore from this favorite rock of mine. I’d hear laughter in the gurgling of the waves, teasing me once again into a sopping mess, and I’d laugh too.

My legs were shorter then, and I was such a tomboy. Now my lanky legs dangled over the edge, toes polished, with a tattoo of seahorses on my calf. I always said, When I die, I want at least one of my atoms to become a part of a seahorse’s tail. Oh, how I love the sea.

The tide was closer now; I could feel a light spray in the air of the crashing waves around me. It was time for my confession to Mother Ocean. “I can’t write,” I whispered to my confidant. “It feels too futile. There is no point.”

She swelled and pulled away, her strength pulling pebbles and shells into her depths. But I knew she’d come back—she always came back. I heard the white noise of her hiss as she once again gathered her strength and pushed her might back to the shore, this time with a brilliant crash against Magoo Rock, giving me a spray across the cheek. A teasing slap to wake me up from my negative thinking.

“Okay, I’m listening. What do you advise?”

I watched as she carried a bleached branch toward the shore. It caught on the sand and settled.

“I’m as washed out as that driftwood, ey?”

I got a big boom and a full facial splash for that one.

Water tickled my toes, and my rolled-up jeans were getting polka-dotted from the spray.

Off she went again, away from me. The clouds broke, and brilliant sunshine painted her in gold and silver.

“Show off.”

I stared at the sad little driftwood, left behind, white as aspen bark in the brilliant light. It was actually quite pretty, and I thought of its journey, from a seedling to a majestic tree, then logged for housing, the sawdust to paper perhaps, and this one branch had been discarded as unimportant.

Where had that branch been? As many places as me? I wondered. My music career had included performing on cruise ships for years. I’d seen the world—a large portion of it, anyway. It is much smaller than people think.

The ocean lapped against my ankles in agreement.

I looked again at the branch—perhaps all was left of a mighty tree. Was this the tree’s legacy? Perhaps… that’s what I was looking for. Leaving a legacy. Just one song—one book, one story that might live longer than me.

Suddenly, I felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps—perhaps someone would pick up that driftwood and turn it to art—something beautiful to hang on their wall. Something to make it matter—to make it important.

Ka-boom! A rogue wave drenched me, head to toe.

I heard the word arrogance in my head. Ocean, did I anger you? Why?

I examined the driftwood as a wave tugged at it, floating it back out to sea.

Maybe I was that driftwood. Traveling the world, always with the ocean as my protector, my friend, my conscience.

Coming close to success—yes, many times, I’d tasted the possibilities, I’d had things almost happen. I’d touched the shore, like the little driftwood, only to be taken back again.

How many times had this driftwood touched the shore? Had it ever stopped for a time? An hour? A year?

And isn’t that how success works—you have your day in the sun for a moment in time, and then it’s someone else’s turn?

I had been to shore. Many times. Did that mean I’d achieved success and had dismissed it?

What was I looking for? What did I want?

The ocean lapped gently at my knees, giving me time to work things out. The ocean is infinitely patient like that.

The fact is, I did write hundreds of songs. People heard them. Not millions, but audiences across the world all heard me sing them. They clapped, didn’t they? They smiled and requested them, night after night, didn’t they?

I did write books and stories and poems. People read them. Not millions. A handful. Some were very touched by them. That means something, doesn’t it?

A soft whoosh, and the driftwood headed once again for shore. How many eyes had seen this driftwood and wondered about it?

It had a knot resembling an eye, and a small, broken side branch that looked like a waving arm. Maybe twenty inches long and four inches thick. “I notice you. I see you. You are lovely. You are unique. You matter,” I said to the little branch. “You have a story to tell. I will tell it.”

This surprised me. Yes. Yes, I would tell the story. Did I have one more story in me to write? I thought the author in me was dead—I’d been walking around in a cloud for so long, an artist without a canvas, a writer without paper. Funny, maybe the tree that the branch came from had been made into paper. Perhaps I, myself, had written on paper that came from the same roots as this driftwood, and we were kindred spirits.

The ocean churned excitedly around Magoo Rock, and I saw that once again, I’d have to jump into her depths to get to shore. As usual, I’d overstayed. Perhaps I’d stayed just long enough.

I turned to shore, getting ready to swim, when the ocean did something unusual. She sucked all the water back out to sea, and the entire rock was free, for just a moment.

“Goodbye, Mother Ocean. Thank you,” I said, as I leaped to shore and jogged toward dry sand.

The ocean didn’t hold back for long. Water rushed around my legs, almost tripping me. I turned to face her, laughing, and the little driftwood floated right to me.

“You’re going home with me,” I said with a full heart. I scooped it up and cradled it to me as if it were an infant and said, “Come on, let’s go write a story.”