Before the beach, my migraine digs a hole into the folds of my brain.
It sits like a storm cloud in front of my eyes.
It twists the muscles of my back and neck into tightly bound rope.
Words fall out of my mouth like splintered wood into people’s palms.
Now, the cloud has disappeared.
The ropes have loosened.
Do these words feel like sand papered birds to you, too?
The cold sea water I walk in barely covers the veins of my feet.
I hold in my hands small tokens of the ocean’s generosity:
a rock, reddish brown with one almost perfectly formed right corner,
a shard of a blue shell with rough edges and small holes.
I clutch them in my fist;
they feel a little like the absent minded grip of a friend’s hand.
What would it be like to live in the assurance of our brokenness?
What would it be like if we didn’t look for our missing pieces?
What if we made a home of this cracked vessel?