Dreaming of sand, salt, sea

   I don't know how long it took for me to settle in. To know that this, THIS was it. That moment, it doesn't just come with bells and trumpets. It creeps in quietly, like a summer storm. No, I didn't see it coming. It didn't happen quickly. In one moment, when the sea was pulling away from my toes only to come back and kiss them again, I knew. And, in that moment, I had no schedule, no time. I was one little dot. In the middle of nowhere. Just as the sea was washing over my chipped toenail polish, it was carrying pieces of me back out with it. Pieces, broken pieces I realized, were being carried out to the sea. Maybe the sea is full of everyone's broken pieces. And, when your toes sink into the sand, you get a piece in return. An exchange of souls. An exchange only a person like me could understand. My broken soul, my many many missing pieces. No questions, no answers, no talking. Just repeated exchanges with every movement. Towards and away, towards and away, perpetual, circular, and never ceasing. Effortless, dependable, constant. The only variation that comes is when the moon comes out to play, to tug more, grasping my hands and willing me to walk farther out to reach the sea. Most days, I sit there. I really sit. Legs out in front with my knees bent, arms behind me, and neck arched up to the sky. Most days, I let every sense soak it in, this vitamin from the sea. I hear the waves coming, so violent and quick. Then, I hear them break and scatter to touch me with rolling bubbles. I smell the mist, the salt as it splashes and I taste it sometimes when I am caught off guard  distracted by my own prayers, lost. I see the seagulls chase the setting sun and know that even they are pulled, tugged, and forever changed by this sea.
    This realization, this "sinking in" is all that I need. I wander down to the shoreline in the mornings. I dapple with my toes there and get my joy cup filled up. Then, after an unknown amount of time, before the sun is too high and too hot, I return back to my sanctuary on the shore.
   The weathered, chipped, creaky steps have no splinters. The wood is worn smooth from years of me trekking in and out. This is always the first sign that I am home. The edges of my steps hold trinkets from my early mornings of beach-combing  Shells, beautiful shards of glass in frosted shades of brown, green, clear, and blue are coupled with twisted driftwood and hanging bits of stubborn seaweed. They are a welcome sight.
   As my bare feet feel remaining grits of sand hit the first step, a light sea breeze makes my wind chime dance and dangle. The swing rocks just slightly while it's overlapping chains hanging from the porch compete for sound before flying away down the beach.
  The screen door also gets carried away in a little gust of wind as I open it and head inside. It doesn't startle me when it slaps against the side of the house. There's no need for a key here. So, I lean over and brush my ankles off and head inside. When I turn back around to latch the screen door with the eye hook, I notice that the clouds are heavy with rain and I can smell a storm on the horizon.