Atlantic

Journal, 18/02/16, Endiabrada, SW Alentejo Coast, Portugal

The Atlantic. 

It's wetter out here than I imagined.

Windier too. 

I'd forgotten about the Atlantic. It's been so long. 9 years.

Sit on a hill near the Atlantic coast in Autumn / Winter and rain is going to happen.

Sometimes horizontal, beating rain. Sometimes massive, dust displacing drops. Sometimes a sea fog, or a divine, pine dripping forest mist. Oh, the sound of those drips.  Sometimes it comes as a fine drizzle, hanging over us for days.

Sometimes you can taste the ocean on the breeze.

Then, one day, the wind stops trying to peel the roof off your house and beat your ear drums, and sets you free.

The sun rises, and it shines, shines, shines. You sit and rest in it’s warm rays, all smiles and glowing. Everything is golden. Flowers open. Bees drop by for breakfast. Birds sing and call out to each other across the valley. 

Then you remember why you came.

It wasn't for the cobalt blue sky, or the relaxing heat, or for the wind and the rain. It was for the vibrant breath of life in your lungs.

The pulse that is felt in every living thing. In every rock. Every crumb of earth under foot. Even the dust.

This is life. This is what it is to be alive, truly alive. 

Life has your back.

Breathe, and dance on.