I adored the oak but was drawn by the sounds of the playful sea. And so I find myself stuck neither here nor there because those waves always move me but I should know by now they wouldn’t keep me.

It’s always this impression of freedom – the wild thrill of those waves in the wide open – crashing, lulling and bubbling around my toes, ankles, fingers and hips, and I should leave but it moves me. It pulls me until I am covered, dripping, floating, thirsty, happy, searching, giggling, surrendering, held and left, and held, and …

The oak stands tall though, certain, withered, telling and sincere. And I adored the oak – I needed the oak. The serenity of knowing forever, of knowing it’s shelter, it’s strength. Sure those leaves could move about in the wind, but an oak has roots the oceans silly feet would never know. I could sit a while, breathe, let go. But what of thrill, surrender, giggling, happy things?

Of course my hands are empty, but my heart is full. Neither here nor there, isn’t obvious only an oak and the sea would do?

And so,