Fighting for, not against

Sometimes, the best protesting you can do is in favor of your own life. Why is it so hard to say what one wants, or decide what to do with the life that you have been gifted?

Last weekend, I paddled in the ocean. No seals, but red jellyfish, and sailboats, and seagulls and terns diving for fish. I startled a school of silver fish – mackerel? – hovering by the rocks, and they flashed away in unison. No dance troupe was ever this aligned. They think as one. 

I’m sure the animals hear us think. Sometimes, I think other people can as well – but not all of them. Not all people listen, or feel. Have you ever looked at a person, and then they turn to look at you, even though you are yards away, silent? Or the intent hovers behind spoken words, which turns their meaning to dust, as uncertainty drifts behind breath? 

On the ocean, none of these things seem to matter, and everything seems possible. Seagulls understand when you look at them. The ocean gently floats  you up and down, and the wind picks up, and your skin turns pink in the sun.

I walked along the rocks and beach at sundown. I remembered a small child, clambering over the rocks, and a dog, black and white and brown, placing paws on ledges. She was always made more for the mountains, even though she loved the city. 

Everywhere is filled with ghosts, and you let them in when you sit quietly.

Our thoughts can fuel the idiots trying to create reality, or deny them.

On the ocean, flat and growing darker with sky, the unseen depths beneath you bear witness to all the fears, all the unknowns. The lighthouse beacon flashes, and the automatic foghorn cuts through the sky. Somewhere there are whales, fish, seals, sharks. 

Maybe we can only protect what we hold closely to our hearts. And maybe we can only hold dogs, and children, and seals, and gulls gently, at a distance. 

Our reality is still ours.