My Ocean...

I couldn't tear myself away.

My feet became addicted to the sand caving from under them after a false sense of stability was given.

My hair adapted to the wind that blew it every which direction, making me feel so at home.

My eyes couldn't part from the unpredictable rythym of the ocean waves, the unharmonized beat that resounded in my ears, the beautiful randomness that doesn't falter far from the sounds of jazz.

My soul has become attached to to the overwhelming feeling I encounter every time I am next to such beauty...

The water hitting my feet
Traveling through my soul
Swelling up into my eyes...
As crying is the only reaction I have to such a perfect view.

I couldn't bare to walk away, even to express my emotions through this pen.

I want to touch.
I want to hold it within.

Nothing matters here...
pain, failure, heartache.

Just as the sand rinses off my feet, these emotions tagged with all confusion.....

dissappear.

I want to find myself here.
As the sand caves from under my feet,
I realize my stability in life resembles that false sense of security.
Our unpredictable lives are unreliable,
and the beauty in that fact-
that in one second our feet could easily be put on new ground,
slams me into the reality that life
unknown.
undecided.
Is the most stable life chosen.


When my feet touch the thing so collosial.
So fierce and so beautiful,
I will know.

because when my feet touch this ocean, I feel COMPLETE.
Despite it's scariness, despite it's unpredictable ways.
It is what I crave for my life, in all aspects.

No pond
No river
No lake
will suffice.

My ocean will come.

The empowerment along with the humility I feel as I walk closer and closer to these waves is a constant reminder of this.

I can't tear away.
It calls me in.
I refuse to tear away.

The Way We Take Our Coffee.

I sit here on my couch, laptop in my lap, my mom in sight.

Minus the way we take our coffee, mine black with one ice cube and hers slightly tan from a little non-fat milk, we look identical as she is on her computer feet away.

I don't think the phrase "becoming my mother" is appropriate. She has showed me through the years a strong personality and helped me develop my own sense of self all while loving (present tense included) me unconditionally. Although not opposite, I never felt relatable to her. We were just two strong people and she was just a ton more bad ass.

A text from her the other day read, "Am I stubborn?". I without hesitation texted into my phone: "Yes, when there is conviction..."
Sent.
Stop.
Lightbulb.
It was a revelation. Her gene of stubborness was very much in my veins. Mine possibly undeveloped and a little less mature, lets face it, ALOT less mature, it was something I had in common. (Minus the texting: yes people, my momma texts.)

I saw her reflection in Michelle's common sense. I saw her compassion ministered through Amy's hugs. Being a little bit of an odd bird of the three girls: tomboy/sporadic/doing-my own thing, I just had never seen my mom in me. I have very much wanted to. I never have met someone as amazing as her. Strong and courageous. Insightful. Beautiful.

I have been grown up since a very young age, knowing what I want and who I am. Becoming my mother is not in the cards for me because she has helped me develop into my own person. Which is why I love her so much. Knowing that I owned her stubborness made me feel triumphant, relatable, content. The little odd bird had finally flew home.

Maybe coffee, a little different colored from the milk and taken different ways, deep down is always coffee.

I am very okay with that fact.

Explanation of Title.

Last night I flew in from Texas. The crazy, wild Spring Break island of South Padre is known for the nights one won't remember, drunken embarrassments, and five days turned into a blur that will be reflected upon years later with only head shaking regret.

My Spring Break 2009 could not have been any more opposite.

I do not recall where the switch happened, but somewhere from not knowing where I wanted to go in my life and seeing the ocean for the first time since last summer, my insides screamed at me, bubbling within, demanding my fingers to pick up a pen. To ignore this urge with all its intensity would be disastrous.

A while ago while in Barnes&Noble, doddling like always when it comes to an overwhelming number of books in one place, I found a journal. I don't know why I was drawn to it particularly, it was one of hundreds on a wall. Looking at it now, it just screams peaceful. Maybe at that time all I wanted was peace. Regardless, this taupe-colored Buddha pictured journal became my best friend. My peace. My outlet. My breath of fresh air.

My Buddha Book came with me to South Padre. It smells of salt from the ocean waves splashing upon its surface as I walked the shore for hours. It became my constant. And best of all, it holds my thoughts, my emotions, my heart rythms.

I don't write because I have wanted to since a young age. I don't write because I would love to be a published novelist. I write because it is a necessity. My soul CRAVES to be poured out. My bubbling insides will burst if not, somehow in someway, released.

I write for my sanity. I write to understand myself more. I write so I can maybe figure out this big, huge world, if even just for a second.

So please, read my breath of fresh air. And hopefully wherever you sit at this moment, that air can minister to you as well.