Always a student

Like a student in a classroom I sit tall, shoulders back, eyes forward, pen in hand- eagerly awaiting the teacher to begin speaking.

A mound of water arises from the smooth mystic horizon. The ocean begins to talk. Yet, her teachings began long before she raised her eyebrow. Long before her lips began to move. And long before waves of truth rolled off of her tongue.

You see it began when I awoke. When the sun peaked over the horizon, when my eyes shined through the gap between my eyelids. It began when I witnessed the tops of the tress swaying from east to west. It began when I understood the playful tug-of-war game that the sun and moon are constantly acting upon. It began when I referenced the direction of the beach in regards to the course of the swell.

But wait… It all really began when each piece of the puzzle was seen as a fundamental part of the whole. The speaking of my teacher gave meaning to the subtle clues, of which I live amongst. She made the pieces fit just so. She somehow made it all make sense. She made the flat puzzle come alive.

The observations, the collection of puzzle pieces, the entanglement of it all served as homework- a progressive training, prerequisites if you will, preparing me for that moment…. the moment when my teacher lets go of my hand, but stays by my side, allowing me to ride the waves of life. The paddle, the stand up, the glide takes me into the next chapter though. The chapter in which the lessons cannot be seen, only felt.