Nothing Holds Weight in the Water ⭐️
It’s a quiet Sunday morning, much like the ones before it. The sun stirs me from sleep, and my pups are already at the back door, tails wagging, noses twitching, eager to greet the backyard like it is brand new, like ten short hours just might have changed everything. I brew a cup of coffee, my comforting morning routine, and I make my way to the ocean. The wind is calm, the sky is clear, and it feels like one of those rare mornings that invites fins and exploration. Mom used to smile at days like this, calling them “A number 10 day.” I hear her voice so clearly, I miss her.
The drive to the beach is short, and with each turn, a quiet sense of anticipation builds. I pass couples with wagons full of towels and toys, surfboards balanced on shoulders, sunscreen children trailing behind them, golden retrievers in tow. Elderly couples walk slowly, side by side, fingers intertwined in a ritual of togetherness. Weekend warriors power through their last mile, breath heavy, determination etched on sun-kissed faces - as if their very existence depended on finishing that last quarter mile. A familiar wave of gratitude washes over me as I see my spot open, tucked between a spindly tree on the left and a leaning telephone pole on the right. Years of careful parking there have made it feel like mine, and I still feel a twinge of ownership when someone else finds it first.
I step out and make my way down to the ocean, where ke kai shimmers in hues of turquoise and glass. It’s nearly empty, and it feels like the ocean saved a quiet moment just for me. I slip beneath the surface and swim, letting myself move weightlessly, like a child playing mermaid. Bubbles rise from my lips, the world above fading, the world below stretching slow and silent. Here, nothing is heavy. Nothing clings.
Nothing holds weigh in the water.
Eventually, I pull myself from the ocean and stretch out on the warm sand, chest to earth, arms folded gently beneath my chin. The sun seeps into me. A small flicker of movement catches my eye, a busy little sand crab, nudging his way free from a patch I’ve unknowingly disturbed. I watch him, tiny legs purposeful, grains of sand flying as he reclaims the shape of his little home. To him, the world is that stretch of beach, that hole, that constant pulse of waves and sun. He works and digs, digs and works.
Grief can feel like that. Like being in a hole we did not dig or intentionally cover with sand to block out the light, but find ourselves inside anyway. We claw at the edges, try to make sense of the ache, convinced it is everything. And sometimes, the idea that anything else exists beyond it, anything bright, or soft, or healing, feels impossibly far away.
But maybe, just like the sand crab can’t see the vast sky above, we, too, can’t always grasp the peace that waits for us. Not yet. And that’s okay. There is no rush, no deadline to reach the surface. The world isn’t going anywhere. It waits with quiet patience, until we’re ready to lift our heads, to feel the warmth on our skin, to let our shadow stretch out behind us and take even the smallest step toward the light.
