Community//

Rock On The Ocean

The gift of slings and arrows.

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         Thrashing and banging up against me, I hold my ground.  

         I can take it.  

         These scrawny, chaotic, pint-sized wisps of liquid spray, ganging up on me in their pack, becoming powerful forces, slapping up against my crumbly outer layer, trying somehow to knock me over, or maybe they’re just running from some perceived evil force, trying to find shelter on the shore and I just happen to be in the way.  

         I feel for them, jumping all around me, skittish, frightened little foamy beings, almost perpetually bumping up against each other, racing towards the elusive sand, as if there’s something there.  They bounce around my rugged shape, shoot up in the air, WHISH, and plop down, WHOOSH, exploding on top of each other in their quest to make it to the beach unscathed, only to recede back to where they came from, floundering in the middle of the vast, safe, tumultuous sea.

         Every now and then, on balmy days, they might become calm, engaged, like focusing through a macro lense, they take notice of my entire frame, hugging my perimeter, as if Mother Sky has sung them a lullaby.  That’s when we merge, connect and sway together in perfect rhythm. The peaceful silence of the mist surrounds us. We are made of the same stuff.

         I stand steady among my flailing buddies, ever ready to protect, deflect and support their childlike rumblings. I am constant, my luster a little worse for wear, pieces of me having been penetrated and chipped off through time and abuse. I’ve become a little leaner and a bit more brittle, but solid as granite is my core and comforting to my companions of the sea.  They know I will always be there, even though my presence for all of us can be frustrating.

         Sometimes the heavens loom low with gray, weepy clouds, maybe even a bolt that singes my corps, and the pressure will get to me.  I feel shaky standing my ground, worrying I might cave and just break off.

         It’s then I soak up the rich, salty air and feel my base settling deep into the cool clay below… and once again reminded of what I am.

          Like petulant children screaming for attention, “Hey, look at me, here I am!  Whatcha gonna do about it?”  

         “Go ahead… smack up against me, test me, challenge me, feel emboldened in your gang.  You show me what I’m made of.”

         Floundering, cajoling, sulking, they pound headlong into my backside.  SPLAT!         

         Ow! Right on my cleavage!

         Ahhh… they’re at it again.  

         I know them well.  

         Bring it on.  

         I can take it.

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