Even when I was little, before I could swim, I was never afraid to be in the sea. We'd walk out into the waves. The Atlantic on the west coast of Ireland churns and gurgles, a milkshake of foam and seaweed. And we'd walk out into those waves.

We'd plant ourselves standing there and let the sea beat us. We'd laugh when it knocked us over and let it drag us to the shore and then we'd walk out into it again. You only needed to stand to feel it all move around you, the great pull of it, sand moving through toes, seaweed around legs, salt on lips.

Lately, I've felt like I'm walking out into the waves again. I'm being shoved by forces I can't quite fathom. I keep saying yes and planting myself for it again. There seems little point in running for the safety of land. I'd only be looking back out at the sea, moon-eyed and wishing to roll with waves again.

It's important for me to remember this when I find myself wishing for simple calm. When I find myself wishing for straightforward people and plans. Dream as I might for constancy, I'm mutable as the green and the blue. I walk out into the waves.

Happy weekend, friends.
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