
I was at a wedding on the coast of Maine in May of 2013. I was happy to be there, but at times the pressure to be social, to make polite conversation, felt suffocating. I was delighted to discover that if I wandered away from the celebration into the fog, I was quickly on the rocks at the shoreline. I was dying to sit down on the surprisingly sturdy bench placed there, but to do so would have meant instantly soaking the seat of my dress clothes. It felt daft to be in such a wild place in such fussy clothes, but one has to take such opportunities as they present themselves. The fog formed into droplets on my eyelashes and felt like a kiss.
Being next to the ocean has always simultaneously drawn out of my heart a longing and an excitement. The fog only increases the sense of mystery and anticipation, like some delicious adventure could be hiding just out of sight. The ocean is never completely still. Not only is it always moving, it is always moving vigorously and decisively. If you sample a drop of water with your tongue, there is no wondering if maybe the water is salty. If only all of life could be so alive, so aggressive, so definite.