the ocean

when i was 5, i felt something deep inside of me when i stepped into the woods surrounding my little yellow house. the feeling of smallness. of bigness. of depth, color, meaning.

when i was 7, i felt moisture in my eyes when i read about rings and short people and battles led by a great king.

when i was 8, i knew something was present as we ran through the sprinkler and the drops of water collected in our hair, reflecting pink fourth of july light.

when i was 11, i found it in coffees, in bookstores, in novels, in explorations, in travel and culture. i learned to write about it. to pen words that tried to capture the essence of my unspeakable joy. the joy that makes no sense, that has no reason, that mysteriously lingers around moments like forest walks, ink blotted pages, crescendoing music, summer days.

at 16, i found the joy in another person. as i looked into eyes like the sea, i found something else. it was part of him, but it was not him. it was bigger and stronger and bled into my heart like a river whose evaporating drops fall and saturate every inch of river bed.

at 19, i traveled the world. i stood in the colosseum, in sleepy homes in Israel, on mountain tops in the middle east, on poor islands scattered through out the world. my heart transformed as i saw newness and oldness. my world expanded as saw people the way they were and things the way they should never be.

these little bits of joy were shards of glass that cut into the sleep of my world and awoke me to the source. the ocean. the mysterious sea. the pieces were in the forest. in the words. in the music. in the dewy water drops. in his laugh and the way his brown, worn hands interlock with my fragile ones. but it was never just that. that was never the joy. they were just the pieces. 

the joy was you. my ocean. your heart bleeds out on my short, beautiful life. and everything your blood touches turns to joy.