Or In a Constant State of Flux, and yet Unmoving
Platyoceandanthes amabilisum (Streams of Consciousness in a Sea of Being)
Welcome to my new home
I think I remember myself floating, not swimming yet—I still cannot swim—but buoyant, suspended, floating. It does not matter my orientation as I was not breathing yet, and tethered of sorts, so I could not float away, not far anyway. Was I thinking at all, yet? I swear though, that I remember, and if one remembers something, one must have been thinking something. Then Momma’s water broke, or did it? I remember that too, as suddenly I was on my own and still not breathing. Umbilical cord severed, a blue baby removed from Momma’s womb, like a wombat or sea serpent. Then I began breathing, color normalized. Momma was sewed up and we were on our way. I think I remember it. Floating, thinking, planning even without knowing my possibilities. Even now, I wonder. I live in wonder. Again, floating and watching the horizon line and staring; awaiting the jumping up, of sea life, and I ponder and reflect and think. Still not a swimmer, but a floater. Don’t we all cruise and float? Maybe not on a ship or a boat or a canoe or on a raft, but we gaze and stare and ponder. My connection with the water has been lifelong, and before, since my beginnings. On a balcony, in a lounge chair with a laptop balanced on my blanket covered knees, plunking away, putting down words and resting for moments while I think more and ponder, reflecting on memory while looking ahead, looking outwards, watching that line where the sea meets the sky. My consciousness streams while ocean-bathed breezes deposit salt spray on my face. Sea, me?
