The Sea and The Moon

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Life is not kind. We are born into it innocent and naïve. If we are lucky, we can stay that way for longer than most. Sometimes, I think about how few lucky ones are out there. I know I'm not. Today, I stand on a cold, bitter winter beach in the north of Scotland. It is February, and my world is broken. 

My mind is like this place-the beach itself, smooth and calm. Gently rising from the shore to the sandy dunes above.

On its own, it's tranquil and peaceful. But then one must take in the sea and sky. The waters are choppy and angry while the wind howls through the emptiness. Not even the seagulls are out today. They have the sense to hide from an approaching storm.

The sky is black and bitter, much like my heart now. With jerking motions, I toss back my head and stare at the clouds. Beyond my sight lies the moon, but he's there pulling and tugging at the heart of the sea. He makes her waves rise, hot with emotion, cold with regret.

That blasted moon, so far away, so out of reach. She knows she will never be able to reach him. I understand that too well.

At this time, I should be filled with happiness, laughter, and joy; I am a new mother. It was only a fortnight ago I gave birth, but here I stand, alone with empty arms.

I can't bear to be near others right now. Their energy burns me like acid poured over my naked skin. My soul cringes away from the faces filled with sympathy and voices filled with hollow condolence. The sounds remind me of the absent seagulls, screeching their 'I'm so sorry' on endless repetition. This place I stand; this is peace for me. Here where there is nothing but coldness and emptiness, I am calm on the surface. I am on the beach at this moment. 

Yet, I turn my gaze back to that raging sea and heavily storm pregnant sky and need to wail the agony ripping me apart internally. In my heart, I am a Banshee, screaming out the death of my child. This was not supposed to happen. I should not be so empty right now. No one can understand this tearing, ripping pain that sunders the very soul from my being.

I walk to the edge of the water and stand. The waves lap over the toes of my Wellie boots, almost in a soothing caress. She knows, doesn't she? She feels that never-ending pain of reaching out for something she can never touch. The loadstone pulls her constantly, calling to her, begging her to come to him. 

Her moon is my son, and I am her. Yet, there is an endless depth beyond her raging surface and a peace that I crave. A small part of me wants to answer that call, and I take another step forward-one, then two, then three and four. The waves break over the tops of my wellies, and icy coldness soaks my leggings and fills my boots.

The shock of ice-cold water should stop me, but I am already numb inside. Nothing can make me colder than I already am. I am frozen, even as I am still burning in the fires of my own personal hell. No one should feel this pain and survive. I could end it now. All I would need to do is to keep walking forward. Half a dozen more steps and all my pain will be gone.

I will be able to do what the sea cannot. I will be able to reach my moon. But, once more, I throw back my head and this time bellowing to the heavens. I have reached my limit; I am completely broken. This anguish has putrefied to the point that it must be lanced, or I will drown. This festering wound that is growing inside me craves my submission.

Without warning, the heavens release their burden and ice-encrusted rain; daggers made of hard, brittle sleet stab into me. I close my eyes and fall to my knees; the sea now level with my heart. That horrible organ that keeps beating, not realizing that it is dead.

Dead as the child, I watched being lowered into the ground. 

I am ready to succumb. To let the peace of the sea claim me under her tumultuous waves, but then I feel it. A scorching heat trailing down my face. Oh, how it burns! It brings back sensation to my deadened limbs. I can feel the numbing cold of the water and the harsh ice slashing at my skin. They battle with the fiery tears pouring from my eyes. It is lava leaking from a volcano about to erupt. It wakes me up. I'm not ready. Slowly and dazed, I return to the beach and look around. It is not as smooth as I thought. There are stones, and detritus, flotsam, and jetsam littered on the ground. It reminds me that life is messy, but we must keep living it.

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