Deepest drenching in the surf

Okay. I gotta say this. First of all, my delightfully talented and creative cousin makes this sort of thing, as I've mentioned before.

I've also mentioned, about fifty or sixty times, that the Oregon Coast is a sort of primal home for me - it calls and must be answered - it waters my inner deserts and soothes both skin and soul. Okay? Got that part? Me. At the beach. 's th'way it is for me.

I've also noted that this started early in my life, when I and my brother and my cousin looked like this. And she's still that cute, and, I still have that haircut. I think someone finally persuaded my brother to take his hood off.

But today, I found out that her sister, my OTHER cousin in that trio of cousins who, like their mother, could sing - in parts - with or without any kind of instrument - whenever they wanted to - and they were all beautiful and athletic and - still can, too. And they still are all those things ... huh? Oh. What was I saying?

Today I found out that the wool roving, sculpturally minded cousin's sister, my other cousin ... well, SHE does THIS! (She's also tech savvy and has it all so I can't grab it and show you. Go to it. The woman PAINTS, I tell you!)

But that's not even the thing that makes me a little fizzy right now. See ... the deal is ... both of these people have taken some photos of the beach. We might have grown up to three very different adult lives, if a person were only to look at our schedules or addresses, but me and my cousins? We are all exactly the same in one very particular way. To all of us, the beach is always there, the surf is always pounding and foaming in the background, the air is always a little bit moist, and there is always a little bit of sand in at least one pair of shoes.

I don't paint. I write. This is what I write about the beach, pictured here through the lenses of my cousins. (pictures linked to sites where you can see more)

Foam the edge of sea
the salt of tears and sweat and fear and victory drips
near my bare and sandy feet
emerging from the edge
of the great

For a year
and a year of years
I drowned
but admire now the print
of toes
pressing into sand
toes pressing on land's edge
not drowned.

Not in the sea but of it
coming up from water
not choked
ancient me, young again and wet.

Waves have pushed me onto shore
love surging after love
to answer
walking coming up and out.
Streams and rivers flow across my skin
where wind says

Today I do not die but live.
The fierce raw cry of
ancient goddess
finds sound in deaf and watered ears
I bring with me
the silence of the deep where sure
and dark
I died.

And yet I live.

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