Do you think she would bother about her uncountable years or how many have mapped, explored and traversed her before?
Would she ask whether the bright, burning sun and moon were flattering to all her rhythmic ripples and undulating curves?
Do you think she would still herself quietly to appease whoever didn’t care to comprehend or respect her deepest, darkest of wonders first?
Might she one day ponder if she is lashing too much on the shores?
Will she ever play along nicely as they have always implored?
For rich man’s greed and profit, is there any chance to be convinced of being less salty and free in sustaining the world?
Certainly not, most unlikely, probably never, not even if she wanted to. For the current of life that runs through her is much stronger, even than her.
A woman as strong and wild as the ocean ought to then see the wisdom in every last wrinkle and line drawn by the same current that animates life much vaster than hers.
The natural carvings of remembrance, generations of experience that lovingly give texture to soft, sagging skin.
Blessings and released trauma in every hue of thining grey, white, or dark and thick, wiry, witchy hair.
Every last creaky bone, blemish and voluptuous roll of skin, all of it honouring the perfect imperfections they tried to tame the savage nature out of us with.
Never will they stop our laughter and tears, none of our old crones’, maidens’ and babies’ years, losses and pains, through all of the hardships and gains, not a single drop will be successfully blocked.
We may have lived lives with sometimes much missing, yet also, I’m sure, often heavily winning.
We are wild women and ought to be proud of all that has marked us upon the vessels willfully waged in these savage oceans.
Until eventually, bountiful of adventurous experiences, we release our vessells peacefully and just like any other wave, crash into oblivion and kindly contribute to the next.
– Natacha Neveu @thesortinghouse 🐺