Going as far back as college, one of my favorite spiritual practices were all those silent prayers of watching one wave crash after the other, vastness and consistency, separation and global connection. Just staring for a few seconds felt like a fistful of Our Fathers.
For the past few years, I’ve found myself living in landlocked places, forced to leave behind this practice. That’s not such a bad thing- having to leave your spiritual comfort zone reminds you that the meaning matters more than the method. But man, I missed it.
Yesterday, I started to wonder if that might’ve been at least a part of the reason I’ve been called back to a coastline. I spent the sunset with a book and a Beignet, watching waves crash. They hadn’t missed a beat.