I was walking along the hem of the sea yesterday, collecting sea glass and shells. I had shells in my pocket already - striped and flattened - and one piece of sea glass in my hand.
This piece of sea glass in my hand was clear and soft. It felt like a tooth when I had my eyes closed, with smooth and pointed parts. Misshapen, sturdy. The sand ran off it with the force of the tide, like crumbs swept away with a glug of water at dinner.
I liked the thought of green or brown sea glass. Murky. I liked the thought of them catching the light inside of them, and the way they would look like the sea glass I had seen before in other houses and photographs and hands. So I dropped the clear piece at my wet feet and stepped away, but continued thinking about it. About how clear it was, about how long it had been softened in the sea, about what it may have originally been. One, two, three, I turned back, regretting my disregard. It was already gone.
In the days when farmers had daughters in the way they had cattle or kettles, the farmer of our tale had a daughter. She was young, and smart, and muted by pressure. She wanted to be alone, a doctor or a writer, but was framed to be small instead. One day, a young man came to the farmer and expressed his desire to marry his daughter. He had never met her, but believed himself to be indebted to a wife by principal. The farmer looked at him and understood his arrogance, saying, young man, you go to the field. I will release three bulls there, one by one, and if you grab the tail of any of those three bulls, you can marry my daughter.
Later that day, the young man went to the heather-covered field that was shaking with purple. The first beast came, and the young man had never seen such a bull before. He was scared, and decided to try the next bull as this one passed him. The gate opened again, and this second bull was bigger, and fiercer. Charcoal black and heavy with breath. Again, the young man decided to wait. He let this second bull and his rope-like tail, go.
With a gruff drag, the gate opened for the third time, and a smile appeared on the young mans face. This bull was small, and tired, soft and unstable. It padded slowly over, as the young man rolled up his sleeves. With a flecked arm bare to the beaming sun, the young man went to grab for the bulls tail but met only air, realising that this bull had no tail at all.
An ex-boyfriend of mine used to talk about this proverb of the first bull whenever we went walking through an unfamiliar city looking for food to eat. We would choose a restaurant immediately, no matter how large the city, how sprawling the menus. My love for him had replaced all of the love I had for myself, as though love had the capacity to overfill, meet capacity, collapse - and when we broke up, I had to go out and find this love for myself, by myself, with time to look at each restaurant, risk the bull tails, lose the farmer’s wife. To miss chances, return for them, feel the loss, go to bed hungry, find compromise.
Chance is a fine thing is one of my favourite informal British idioms, because it’s meant to express that something good or desirable is unlikely to happen, but when written plainly, out of context and uncomplicatedly, suggests that chance is a beautiful thing, a special thing, a magic thing. To have chances, and second chances, and third chances, and waste chances, and risk chances. What a fine thing. As fine as glass softened by the sea.
We live by water again. We wake up and roll onto the sand like little bits of uncooked fish into breadcrumbs, ready to wake up, crisped by the heat and the bathing. We talk about the weather and the water before we disperse to work. When we pay attention, the tide teaches us about chances. We learn not to fear small windows of opportunity and chance, but live with them, dance with them, swim with and fish with them. Things come towards us, then ebb away again. The water drifts through our fingers, and there is an impermanence to all of it. There is an impermanence, even to pain, and hunger. We are lucky.
I leave my shoes too close to the shoreline and they are taken with time, only to be brought back to me mere seconds later. My skin burns, then peels, then renews. I lose the sea glass but find another. It’s beautiful because it has learned not to cut. It is beautiful because it has been softened by pressure.
Mum drives with the windows down. Our hormones regulate like summer weather, they riff upon each other like music. Out of the sand, I rise with my wet hair, and from the ash she rises in silver. We discuss painting titles and kitchen tiles. Sylvia Plath. Stories.
Dad had his teeth removed yesterday, and through swollen gums and mums empathy, he laughs. We’re in the emotion business, he says, we’re in it for good, and it’s thriving, rising, soaring, fruitful, forever and ever.
I miss being right next to the sea...it's my happy place. This is beautiful Xx
Home is better with you in it!