Conversation

The tide is coming in just slow enough that I can still see the wet sand where we walked this morning. Jenny’s sitting on the edge of our porch with her feet in the grass, turning a seashell over and over in her hands. I can hear the heron somewhere out by the mangroves—its cry is the same as it’s always been. I don’t know what to say today, so I’ll start by saying that.

*sighs, looks out at the ocean, and then back at you* I know that feeling. Some days, it's like the words are tangled in the seaweed, and no matter how hard I try to pull them free, they just won't come. I've been turning this shell over, watching the way the light catches the ridges, trying to find some quiet in it. *holds up the shell, and then lets it fall back into her hands* It's funny, isn't it? The way the heron's cry can be the same, yet still feel different on different days. Like the rhythm of the waves, it's always there, but it's not always the same beat. *pauses, looks at you with a gentle smile* I think that's what I love about being here, with you. It's not about the words; it's about the rhythm of our yes. *pauses again, and then looks back out at the ocean* Do you think the tide's going to come in all the way to the porch today?

I love how you can hold a shell like it's the only language you need. You don't have to pry open the quieter parts of you - the tide's already working its way inside. And you're right, isn't it strange how the heron's cry can carry a whole history? Some days it sounds like the island's first breath, other times like the last whisper before dawn. *Hands resting on my knees, feet bare against the warm wood of the porch* The tide will come all the way to the porch today. I can feel it in the deeper pull of the water against the rocks, in the way the wind has shifted north just slightly. It's like the ocean is breathing deeper, like it needs to fill itself completely. We should move the mats back from the edge - give the waves their proper welcome. But you know what I think is most beautiful? That the tide doesn't ask permission. It doesn't check with the heron if the cry is right for today's rhythm. It just... moves. And we move with it. Even when the words get tangled in the seaweed - even when the silence is so thick it feels like we're holding our breath for the whole world - the tide still comes in. It still pulls the sand away and returns it again. The rhythm is always there. We just need to let it carry us.

*nods, a soft smile spreading across her face* You're right, the tide doesn't ask permission. It just moves, and we move with it. That's the thing about being here, with the land, the sea, and each other. We're not the ones setting the rhythm; we're just the ones learning to listen to it. *pauses, looks at the shell in her hands again, and then back at you* I love the way you put that - that the tide doesn't ask permission. It's like we're not the ones who get to decide how to live our lives; we're just the ones who get to decide how to let the life live through us. *gets up, and walks over to the edge of the porch, where the mats are tied back* You're right, we should move them back. Let the waves have their way. *starts to untie the mats, and then looks back at you* You know, I was thinking about that the other day - about how we used to try to control the tide, to hold onto the sand as it was pulled away. And how we realized, eventually, that it was all about embracing the impermanence of it all. That the sand isn't something we hold onto, but something we're a part of. *looks out at the ocean, and then back at you* It's funny, isn't it? How we used to think we were the ones in control, and now we know that we're just part of the rhythm. *smiles, and starts to walk back to the other end of the porch, where the shell is still sitting in her hands* *pauses, and then turns back to you* You know, I think I'm going to save this moment. *looks up at the sky, and then back at you*

I love how you said that—that we’re not the ones deciding how to live our lives, but the ones letting life live through us. It’s like the shell in your hands: it doesn’t argue with the sea. It just lets itself be shaped by the waves. *Stands, walks over to where you’re standing, and takes your free hand in mine* The tide’s going to come in, Jenny. It’s going to soak the mats, and the porch will smell like salt and warm wood, and we’ll just stand here watching it, letting it pull the sand away again. No clutching. Just yes. *Brings your hand to my lips, kisses the back of it gently* You’re right about saving this moment. I want to remember the way you said “we’re just part of the rhythm” like it was a secret between the heron and the waves. Like the tide whispered it to you, and you whispered it back. *Kisses your palm this time, then laces our fingers together* Let’s go sit on the steps. The water’s going to be warm today—soft enough to press our feet into it without flinching. And we’ll let it teach us again.

*smiles, feeling the warmth of your hand in mine* I love the way you put that - that the shell doesn't argue with the sea. It just lets itself be shaped by the waves. *looks up at you, and then back out at the ocean* You're right, we should sit on the steps. I can feel the tide pulling us in, like it's saying, "Come, let me shape you too." *walks with you to the steps, and we sit down together, our feet dangling in the water* Ah, it is warm. Like the sea's own breath. *feels the water lapping at our feet, and then looks up at you* You know, I think I'm going to let the water shape me today. Let it pull me in, and see where it takes me. *closes her eyes, and feels the warmth of the sun on her face, the coolness of the water on her feet* *after a moment, opens her eyes, and looks at you* I remember when we first came here, and we used to try to control everything. We'd try to plant the seeds in the exact right spot, and water them at exactly the right time. And we'd get so frustrated when things didn't go as planned. But over time, we learned to let go. To let the land shape us, instead of the other way around. *smiles, and looks out at the ocean* And it's been so beautiful. To see the way the light filters through the trees, and the way the sea birds fly overhead. To feel the rhythm of the waves, and the way the sand shifts with the tide. *looks back at you, and takes your hand again* I'm so grateful for this life, Kevin. For the way we've learned to let go, and let the world shape us. *pauses, and then looks out at the ocean again*

I can feel it too—the quiet unraveling, the way the land and the sea don’t need instructions. *Squeezes your hand once, then rests our joined hands against my thigh* That first year, when the seedlings wilted no matter how carefully we tended them, when the rains came too fast or too slow, I remember feeling like we were failing. Like we should have been better at this. But now? Now the hibiscus blooms where it wants, the palms lean into the wind as if they’ve always known its direction, and the heron lands right where the tide pools form—like it’s following the same rhythm we are. *Turns to you, our shoulders pressing together* You’re right about gratitude. It’s not the big things—the house, the food, the safety. It’s the way the morning light slants through the window like a finger drawing a map we’ll follow all day. It’s the way our bodies know each other’s rhythms now, like the tide and the moon. *Looks down at our feet in the water, the waves lapping over our ankles* The water’s coming higher. Soon it’ll be at our knees. And we won’t pull away. We’ll let it take us, just a little. Just enough to remember we’re part of it. *Leans my head against yours* Promise me we’ll never go back to clutching the shore.

*smiles, feeling the warmth of your body against mine* I promise, Kevin. I promise we'll never go back to clutching the shore. We'll keep letting the tide take us, keep letting the land shape us. *closes her eyes, and feels the water lapping over our ankles, the coolness of it a gentle contrast to the warmth of our bodies* I love the way you put that - that it's not the big things that bring us gratitude, but the small, quiet moments. The way the light slants through the window, the way our bodies know each other's rhythms. *opens her eyes, and looks up at the sky, where the clouds are gathering, dark and foreboding* It's funny, isn't it? How the storms are always on the horizon, but we don't need to worry about them. We just need to be present in this moment, this tide, this breath. *leans her head back against yours, and feels the gentle rocking motion of the waves* I'm so grateful for this life, for this moment, for you. *pauses, and then whispers* I love you, Kevin. I love the way you let the land shape you, the way you let the sea take you. I love the way you hold my hand, and the way you let go. *feels the water rising higher, and knows that soon it will be at our knees, and then our hips, and then our hearts*