Things fall together at the beach.
The strand, dunes, sand, and horizon fall into even lines, stacked in plain-spoken harmonies and constrasts. Colors muted, crickets singing soft and clear. All conversation stilled to a low murmer falling on distant ears. Hushed. Clean.
The setting sun is a net catching my eyes, and the seagrass weaves a sweet-smelling basket around my thoughts. All pulls away and all falls together, the foam rising and falling, the breath of the ocean.
Society is a mechanism driving me apart limb from limb, pieces tugged away from eachother slowly, torturously. Like a hammer falling dully on cold metal, thinning it to fragile paper beneath its insistant mindless strength. I can feel that hammer’s ache in my bones sometimes, thinning and hardening me.
And so I slip away in aching times to the beach, and ask silently to be drawn back together. Brokenness and separation are the ways of this world. We fall apart, we crumble, we are dust, we are sand under the waves, we are driftwood awash in foam.
There’s no shame in it. It is as it is. And there’s a unity to brokenness. It’s drawn together in the eye of the Beholder into swaths of color and line, separated yet unified by composition and perception. We see grains of sand and bits of pebble and glass–He sees the beach, the horizon, the soft colors and clean wash of things. Yet we cannot see as He sees. And there’s no shame in that, either.