Oh, yes, Deborah (deep breath) I will have to come back to this piece, read it again and again, through my own entangled layers, I love your metaphors and analogies, I too feel the weight and the depth, at times catapulting me to greater heights and lightness. Thank you for offering to share your experiences of depth 💗 🙏 ✨
Thank you so much Veronika, for your warm, thoughtful response. I’m really touched that my short story resonates with you. I love how you describe the depth and weight as something that can also lift you to greater heights and lightness - it’s such a beautiful and inspiring perspective. Sharing these experiences and reflections with kindred spirits like you means so much to me, and I’m so grateful for this connection. 💗 🙏 ✨
Wonderful. Yes, I guess I've felt this weight even as a child. Sometimes, it felt like it was a message or a realization that I was not the isolated being that this culture educates us into believing we are. Sometimes, it felt like it came from an awareness of the constant nearness of death-- or so I (barely) understood it. I grew up with an ailing grandmother living in the next room, and felt death constantly on the doorstep. At night, I'd sneak a look into her room, to see if she slept alone or some darkness was there, absorbing her last breath. Anyway, it's important for me to hear what you've said here. It helps me greet this inner depth. Oh--I realize I never told you I received Croneology. I link my message above to your poem "Do Nothing, Be Everything."
Thank you Ira for sharing such a beautifully honest reflection. It’s incredible how even as a child, you were already tuned in to that deeper awareness of life and mortality. That image of you peeking into your grandmother’s room is so vivid and full of emotion - it really moved me.
I'm deeply honoured to know that my words and my poem 'Do Nothing, Be Everything,' have connected with your soul journey. It’s in these moments of shared vulnerability that we find those threads of connection - reminders that we’re never truly isolated.
I'm over the moon that “Croneology” has found its way to you, and I hope it continues to be a companion as you navigate and embrace this depth within. I'm truly grateful to be on this journey with you. Thank you for letting me know 'you feel this too'. Namaste
I'm so pleased to hear that you're finding support on Substack, Paul. I only joined last month and am still rubbing my eyes in disbelief and wonder every day as I connect to more kindred spirits who also carry depth and share weight. Thanks so much for reading.
yes, i feel this too. i also left home at age 18, leaving the country of my birth and traveling to the US. my weight feels more like a shadow, always lurking behind, watching. i’m sure all humans carry weights of their own kind, whether they want to admit it or not. we tend to associate these weight with weakness, and perhaps therein lies the hesitation to “come clean”. thank you for sharing your heart, Deborah.
Sam, thank you for sharing that - it means a lot. I can only imagine how much courage it took to leave home at 18 and start again in a whole new country - what an incredible journey that must’ve been! I love how you describe your 'weight' as shadow - it’s such a powerful image, and so true. We all have our own shadows, don’t we? And you’re right, there’s real strength in being open about them, even when it feels hard. I really appreciate your kind and thoughtful words - they resonate deeply.
Thank you for sending out that message in a bottle.
My depth has felt like the Wood Wise Web. I have lived underground in the dark, connecting & helping others bloom by passing along what I could. For years I struggled because I only let myself bloom so rarely, a strange night flower that would live & die by the moon’s light. But I kept on weaving and growing and connecting, even though the surface looked barren. I am becoming my own Constant Gardner now, growing a small Oasis on the surface that is nourished by the networks I built in the dark. It all mattered, even when all I had was a tender shoot yearning for more in the inky darkness.
If only you could see me smile, how the tendrils of joy are pushing up and out of this poet’s heart. Why, I’m all a-bloom! What an honour it is to read such deep, rich and beautifully expressed language. Your words are a gift, radiating with the kind of beauty that lingers long after they’ve been spoken.
Thank you so much for letting me know you feel it too, that depth! The imagery of the Wood Wise Web and the night flower isn’t just powerful - it resonates on such a deep level, a testament to the resilience, quiet strength and unseen connections that sustain all of us through the darkest of times.
Thank you so much for sharing yourself with such openness and poetic grace. Your words flow with the kind of beauty that reflects the very same night-flower that you're describing - achingly beautiful, tender yet strong, and one that blooming brilliantly in the moon’s light. Deep bow!
Your words radiate such warmth and appreciation! Thank you so much for sharing them. It’s beautiful to see how the Substack connection and creativity mean to you. Me too, I want to shout - me too! I’m thrilled to have found such life-giving support and creative resonance here. In a world often noisy, it’s wonderful to have a small corner where kindred spirits gather and creative sparks thrive. Can I ask, what name do you like to go by? ❤️🐝🧚🏻♂️🍄
My name is Lia & G.I.N (Golden Imp Notorious) is my Trickster part, or one of them. On Instagram, for my ceramic art, I am the Curiosity Smith.
I love naming things, and creating clubs - & you might already be a member of my latest one because I feel like I found it here amongst the people who are changing the consciousness contract for our collective Human Consciousness Murmuration. It is the CSSC - Citizen Spiritual Scientist Club where we use our discernment for expansion.
Lia, I love how much thought and creativity you put into naming things - G.I.N. and “Curiosity Smith” are brilliant! The CSSC sounds like an amazing idea, and I’m honoured to be part of it. The concept of a “collective Human Consciousness Murmuration” is so inspiring. Thank you for sharing this - it feels like something really special. Oh, and count me in on the CSSC - curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but it’s clearly igniting consciousness here! 🐱❤️
We are honoured to have you with us in the CSSC! When I was going through my family scapegoating I kept wishing for someone like me, someone who cares, who delighted in other people’s delight and care…and now I am finding you. Oooh, this is a good spell for crying for me. I feel like maybe I really am emerging from that trauma prison and that there are beating hearts, shining eyes and strong spines out there in the world.
Hi Deborah, your ‘weight’ becomes ‘depth’ and your prose reads as poetry - l feel your words and the beauty in the burden that births wisdom, and l can taste the sea that is a portal to explore your being. Thank you for sharing and for the connection. 😊🙏💚
Thank you so much Simone for the gift of your beautiful, poetic words. I love the way you describe weight turning into depth and finding beauty in the burden that brings wisdom. The imagery of the sea as a portal is so vivid and resonates deeply. I’m deeply grateful for your words tonight and this heart connection we share.
I agree that when shared the weight becomes lighter, but it never disappears for me. I have a different weight, but it began with my father's illness when I was almost three years old. It continued on through his illness until my dad died when I was 14. Everything changed when I was 21 years old and I met the man who would stay close to my heart for decades and never fear the weight of grief and tears. Now, 17 years after his death, I still feel the strength of his support and our heart connection and sometimes along with that strength, there is a heavy grief in my heart and belly. I feel that grief today, but life taught me the wisdom of my particular weight. To love, to let go, and to long. Dear Poet, thank you for sharing your heart and tender writing and helping me explore my own inner weight. Sending love across the sea.
Thank you so much Elaine, my dear friend, for sharing your heartfelt words and poignant stories. It’s so moving to hear about the connection you had with your father and later with beloved Vic, who held such an important place in your heart for so many, many years. The wisdom you’ve found in your weight - "to love, to let go, and to long" - is truly inspiring. I’m deeply honoured that my short story and depth resonated with you, and I’m so grateful to share this journey with you. I will always bless the day our paths crossed on life’s open road. Sending you much love, strength and hope across the oceans and oak tops that connect us. Your poet friend, Deborah.
Thanks Deborah! It’s a pleasure to lean into that connection in the spaces between and around the words. We enter into language here, but we are not of it. This connection reaches for what’s on the other side. No words can describe it. We all try. Yet we feel it. What you ripple is a cosmic intimacy. Widening circles. It’s more than being seen and being heard. It swells into the never ending song that we are all a part of. Thank you for being brave enough to sing yours. That in itself helps the rest of us sing ours. Thanks for Being - Here 🙏❤️
Thank you Jamie for such beautiful and heartfelt words. The idea of cosmic intimacy and widening circles really resonates - like we're part of something so much greater. Indeed, a connection that goes beyond what words could ever capture. A few years ago I wrote "The Symphony of the Soul of Love" a poem that echoes these cosmic harmonies. A few lines ...
Dear poets we are but the first note
in the celestial octave,
the tone upon which harmony is fashioned.
For out of our sonata we birth
infinite melodies, out of our harmony
arise infinite harmonies.
Come let us merge with harmonic light,
symphony of the soul of love.
I’m so grateful to share in this ever-expanding song with you. Your kindness and presence here on Substack inspires me to keep singing. Thank you for Being - Here, too. 🙏❤️
Maybe poetry is the sound before the sound? Just know you sing loud and we can hear you over here- on the other side. The ocean only echoes your words. Keep writing. We will keep singing with you. 🙏❤️
Thank you so much for your uplifting words - they mean so much to me. I love how you describe poetry as "the sound before the sound" - what a beautiful way to put it. Knowing my words echo across the ocean and are heard on the other side fills me with joy. It’s such a gift to know you’re singing along, Jamie. Sending love and gratitude. 🙏❤️
Beautifully written. I think I have a depth but it is not a weight. It is an anchor that allows me to feel comfortable with myself, to attempt to analyse the world and those around me, but rarely to feel low because of it. My husband and grandson tell me I am wise, but I don't feel that so much as just ready to understand and communicate what I feel. Personally, I am wedded to the hormone view of history and think that my lack of weight is simply hormones (or something else in my body/brain over which I have no control) as is your situation. A strong sense of the fun helps a lot. I don't write poetry.
Thank you so much for your kind-hearted words and adding depth to this conversation, Ann! I love how you see your depth as an anchor - grounding yet insightful. Your perspective on hormones shaping experiences is intriguing. Clearly, your husband and grandson recognise something very special in you. And although you say you don’t write poetry, the way you express yourself feels poetic in its own way. Thanks again.
Wow, Deborah, now I found both this post and the comment you were referring to and I am so glad you shared the link. Your words in both of them move me deeply. I am so touched by the vulnerability you are sharing here, and the beautiful, gentle response. The sea connects all of us who carry weight, but by sharing the burden we can float instead of sink. ❤️
Oh Sarah, I'm so pleased that my story resonates with you! I've been wanting to find a way of reaching out and letting others know that they're not alone and that indeed, many of us carry depth (although we may have another name for it. This was my eighth post and somehow those muses decided to turn it into a story. I'm not complaining but when I read your beautiful words this morning, virtually at the same time I was replying to Amanda, I thought to myself, I must tell Sarah, I must! ❤️
Deborah, I find so much solace in your words. This resonated so deeply and I find myself wanting to ask - do you suppose many of us who carry this weight find ourselves drawn to the sea?
Astrologically, I’m a water sign, and typology-wise, I’m a dominant feeling type, so water has always felt like my first ‘home.’ It’s more than just an element; it’s a deep connection woven into my DNA. For my motherline traces back to the Sea Peoples, those ancient voyagers who lived and breathed the ocean. Perhaps that’s where the ‘pirate’ in me comes from, a restless spirit forever needing to keep the horizon in view.
But the sea offers more than just a sense of heritage; it gives me freedom. Beyond the waters I see and touch, I’m drawn to those 'living waters' below, a world teeming with mystery, depth and beauty. There’s something in the sensory pull of the ocean: the salt-laden air that fills my lungs, the rhythmic crash of waves that steadies my heart, and the cool touch of water that feels like both release and connection. It’s as though the sea absorbs some of the weight I carry, offering a space to breathe and let go.
Living by the sea brings perspective. That vast expanse, stretching endlessly to meet the sky, reminds me that even amidst life’s storms, calm will come again. The tides ebb and flow, reflecting the rhythm of existence ... the highs, the lows, the moments of stillness in between. It’s a mirror to my inner world, showing me strength even when I feel unsteady.
For me, the coast isn’t just where I live, it’s where I truly feel alive. And deep within its waters, I feel tethered to something greater. I’m drawn to a great anchor buried far below, its chains connecting me to generations of history and to the Sea Peoples whose daring spirit still whispers across the waves. That anchor doesn’t weigh me down; it holds me steady, offering a place to rest while keeping my horizon clear.
Thank you so much for asking the question, Amanda. It’s sparked a wonderful reflection for me. I’ve even made a note in my journal to write more about those 'Sea People' and the story of my motherline as there’s so much to uncover there. Are you, too, drawn to the sea and its ‘living waters’? I wonder if its rhythm, vastness and mystery speaks to you as it does to me.
'The sensory pull of the ocean' - I love that. And I very much look forward to you writing more about the 'Sea People' from your motherline.
Yes, I am also drawn to the sea. I relocated to be close to it around a year and a half ago and have never felt more at home. I don't think anything could persuade me inland!
Oh my goodness Amanda, I did waffle on in my reply, apologies! I think I’ve started writing a new post here on the screen instead of in my journal. I do that, something will intrigue me like your question and being a poet I am, my answer spirals itself out in all directions.
Whenever I find myself ‘inland’ without a lake or a river nearby, I often feel landlocked. You see, I crave the sea and dream of those living waters, above and below, often.
That’s wonderful that you too live close to the enigmatic sea. There’s such an indescribable joy in doing so.
Not at all! I loved reading your reply. It sparked curiosity in me as I wondered about where my own motherline might trace back to.
I didn't realise how much I needed to be near the sea until I made the specific choice to be permanently beside it. There is something about the swelling of water beneath rocks that creates a soundwave so deep I can feel its resonance in my chest. It makes my daily worries seem so insignificant.
I have noticed I also feel landlocked when I travel inland, I can smell the change in the air and I feel great relief when I return to the edges!
Thank you for this lovely, soulful...and yes, poetic...rendering of beauty that a life of depth such as yours can inspire, Deborah. I'm thrilled we've both found community with others of like heart and mind here on Substack. ❤️
Thank you so much Jenna, my dear Substack Sister, for your beautiful and heartfelt message! I truly adore this space on Substack - it’s been such an inspiring sanctuary that it moved me to write a short story about my journey here and the reason I came in the first place: to seek kindred spirits. ❤️
Oh, yes, Deborah (deep breath) I will have to come back to this piece, read it again and again, through my own entangled layers, I love your metaphors and analogies, I too feel the weight and the depth, at times catapulting me to greater heights and lightness. Thank you for offering to share your experiences of depth 💗 🙏 ✨
Thank you so much Veronika, for your warm, thoughtful response. I’m really touched that my short story resonates with you. I love how you describe the depth and weight as something that can also lift you to greater heights and lightness - it’s such a beautiful and inspiring perspective. Sharing these experiences and reflections with kindred spirits like you means so much to me, and I’m so grateful for this connection. 💗 🙏 ✨
Wonderful. Yes, I guess I've felt this weight even as a child. Sometimes, it felt like it was a message or a realization that I was not the isolated being that this culture educates us into believing we are. Sometimes, it felt like it came from an awareness of the constant nearness of death-- or so I (barely) understood it. I grew up with an ailing grandmother living in the next room, and felt death constantly on the doorstep. At night, I'd sneak a look into her room, to see if she slept alone or some darkness was there, absorbing her last breath. Anyway, it's important for me to hear what you've said here. It helps me greet this inner depth. Oh--I realize I never told you I received Croneology. I link my message above to your poem "Do Nothing, Be Everything."
Thank you Ira for sharing such a beautifully honest reflection. It’s incredible how even as a child, you were already tuned in to that deeper awareness of life and mortality. That image of you peeking into your grandmother’s room is so vivid and full of emotion - it really moved me.
I'm deeply honoured to know that my words and my poem 'Do Nothing, Be Everything,' have connected with your soul journey. It’s in these moments of shared vulnerability that we find those threads of connection - reminders that we’re never truly isolated.
I'm over the moon that “Croneology” has found its way to you, and I hope it continues to be a companion as you navigate and embrace this depth within. I'm truly grateful to be on this journey with you. Thank you for letting me know 'you feel this too'. Namaste
I can relate to this very well, Deborah, especially in terms of my experience with Substack. Thank you!
I'm so pleased to hear that you're finding support on Substack, Paul. I only joined last month and am still rubbing my eyes in disbelief and wonder every day as I connect to more kindred spirits who also carry depth and share weight. Thanks so much for reading.
yes, i feel this too. i also left home at age 18, leaving the country of my birth and traveling to the US. my weight feels more like a shadow, always lurking behind, watching. i’m sure all humans carry weights of their own kind, whether they want to admit it or not. we tend to associate these weight with weakness, and perhaps therein lies the hesitation to “come clean”. thank you for sharing your heart, Deborah.
Sam, thank you for sharing that - it means a lot. I can only imagine how much courage it took to leave home at 18 and start again in a whole new country - what an incredible journey that must’ve been! I love how you describe your 'weight' as shadow - it’s such a powerful image, and so true. We all have our own shadows, don’t we? And you’re right, there’s real strength in being open about them, even when it feels hard. I really appreciate your kind and thoughtful words - they resonate deeply.
Yes, I feel this too.
Thank you for sending out that message in a bottle.
My depth has felt like the Wood Wise Web. I have lived underground in the dark, connecting & helping others bloom by passing along what I could. For years I struggled because I only let myself bloom so rarely, a strange night flower that would live & die by the moon’s light. But I kept on weaving and growing and connecting, even though the surface looked barren. I am becoming my own Constant Gardner now, growing a small Oasis on the surface that is nourished by the networks I built in the dark. It all mattered, even when all I had was a tender shoot yearning for more in the inky darkness.
If only you could see me smile, how the tendrils of joy are pushing up and out of this poet’s heart. Why, I’m all a-bloom! What an honour it is to read such deep, rich and beautifully expressed language. Your words are a gift, radiating with the kind of beauty that lingers long after they’ve been spoken.
Thank you so much for letting me know you feel it too, that depth! The imagery of the Wood Wise Web and the night flower isn’t just powerful - it resonates on such a deep level, a testament to the resilience, quiet strength and unseen connections that sustain all of us through the darkest of times.
Thank you so much for sharing yourself with such openness and poetic grace. Your words flow with the kind of beauty that reflects the very same night-flower that you're describing - achingly beautiful, tender yet strong, and one that blooming brilliantly in the moon’s light. Deep bow!
Thank you so much, I am bawling my eyes out. Thank you 🙏 for helping me cry out more old stuck pain.
What a gift to have found your Substack through another amazing new person I discovered here.
To be so in resonance with people of such life-giving support and bedazzling creative depth is so healing.
I am here for the ecosystem, and lo and behold I am finding the ecosystem is here for me too. ❤️🐝🧚🏻♂️🍄
Your words radiate such warmth and appreciation! Thank you so much for sharing them. It’s beautiful to see how the Substack connection and creativity mean to you. Me too, I want to shout - me too! I’m thrilled to have found such life-giving support and creative resonance here. In a world often noisy, it’s wonderful to have a small corner where kindred spirits gather and creative sparks thrive. Can I ask, what name do you like to go by? ❤️🐝🧚🏻♂️🍄
My name is Lia & G.I.N (Golden Imp Notorious) is my Trickster part, or one of them. On Instagram, for my ceramic art, I am the Curiosity Smith.
I love naming things, and creating clubs - & you might already be a member of my latest one because I feel like I found it here amongst the people who are changing the consciousness contract for our collective Human Consciousness Murmuration. It is the CSSC - Citizen Spiritual Scientist Club where we use our discernment for expansion.
Lia, I love how much thought and creativity you put into naming things - G.I.N. and “Curiosity Smith” are brilliant! The CSSC sounds like an amazing idea, and I’m honoured to be part of it. The concept of a “collective Human Consciousness Murmuration” is so inspiring. Thank you for sharing this - it feels like something really special. Oh, and count me in on the CSSC - curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but it’s clearly igniting consciousness here! 🐱❤️
We are honoured to have you with us in the CSSC! When I was going through my family scapegoating I kept wishing for someone like me, someone who cares, who delighted in other people’s delight and care…and now I am finding you. Oooh, this is a good spell for crying for me. I feel like maybe I really am emerging from that trauma prison and that there are beating hearts, shining eyes and strong spines out there in the world.
Hi Deborah, your ‘weight’ becomes ‘depth’ and your prose reads as poetry - l feel your words and the beauty in the burden that births wisdom, and l can taste the sea that is a portal to explore your being. Thank you for sharing and for the connection. 😊🙏💚
Thank you so much Simone for the gift of your beautiful, poetic words. I love the way you describe weight turning into depth and finding beauty in the burden that brings wisdom. The imagery of the sea as a portal is so vivid and resonates deeply. I’m deeply grateful for your words tonight and this heart connection we share.
Thank you, l too feel gratitude for the connection Deborah. Energy travels faster than my fingers typing so pleased you feel it 😊🙏.
“Energy travels faster than my fingers typing” - Truth spelt with a capital T! 😊🙏
❤️❤️❤️😊
I agree that when shared the weight becomes lighter, but it never disappears for me. I have a different weight, but it began with my father's illness when I was almost three years old. It continued on through his illness until my dad died when I was 14. Everything changed when I was 21 years old and I met the man who would stay close to my heart for decades and never fear the weight of grief and tears. Now, 17 years after his death, I still feel the strength of his support and our heart connection and sometimes along with that strength, there is a heavy grief in my heart and belly. I feel that grief today, but life taught me the wisdom of my particular weight. To love, to let go, and to long. Dear Poet, thank you for sharing your heart and tender writing and helping me explore my own inner weight. Sending love across the sea.
Thank you so much Elaine, my dear friend, for sharing your heartfelt words and poignant stories. It’s so moving to hear about the connection you had with your father and later with beloved Vic, who held such an important place in your heart for so many, many years. The wisdom you’ve found in your weight - "to love, to let go, and to long" - is truly inspiring. I’m deeply honoured that my short story and depth resonated with you, and I’m so grateful to share this journey with you. I will always bless the day our paths crossed on life’s open road. Sending you much love, strength and hope across the oceans and oak tops that connect us. Your poet friend, Deborah.
Thanks Deborah! It’s a pleasure to lean into that connection in the spaces between and around the words. We enter into language here, but we are not of it. This connection reaches for what’s on the other side. No words can describe it. We all try. Yet we feel it. What you ripple is a cosmic intimacy. Widening circles. It’s more than being seen and being heard. It swells into the never ending song that we are all a part of. Thank you for being brave enough to sing yours. That in itself helps the rest of us sing ours. Thanks for Being - Here 🙏❤️
Thank you Jamie for such beautiful and heartfelt words. The idea of cosmic intimacy and widening circles really resonates - like we're part of something so much greater. Indeed, a connection that goes beyond what words could ever capture. A few years ago I wrote "The Symphony of the Soul of Love" a poem that echoes these cosmic harmonies. A few lines ...
Dear poets we are but the first note
in the celestial octave,
the tone upon which harmony is fashioned.
For out of our sonata we birth
infinite melodies, out of our harmony
arise infinite harmonies.
Come let us merge with harmonic light,
symphony of the soul of love.
I’m so grateful to share in this ever-expanding song with you. Your kindness and presence here on Substack inspires me to keep singing. Thank you for Being - Here, too. 🙏❤️
Thank you!
Beautiful imagery and sound in your poem Deborah.
Maybe poetry is the sound before the sound? Just know you sing loud and we can hear you over here- on the other side. The ocean only echoes your words. Keep writing. We will keep singing with you. 🙏❤️
Thank you so much for your uplifting words - they mean so much to me. I love how you describe poetry as "the sound before the sound" - what a beautiful way to put it. Knowing my words echo across the ocean and are heard on the other side fills me with joy. It’s such a gift to know you’re singing along, Jamie. Sending love and gratitude. 🙏❤️
Beautifully written. I think I have a depth but it is not a weight. It is an anchor that allows me to feel comfortable with myself, to attempt to analyse the world and those around me, but rarely to feel low because of it. My husband and grandson tell me I am wise, but I don't feel that so much as just ready to understand and communicate what I feel. Personally, I am wedded to the hormone view of history and think that my lack of weight is simply hormones (or something else in my body/brain over which I have no control) as is your situation. A strong sense of the fun helps a lot. I don't write poetry.
Thank you so much for your kind-hearted words and adding depth to this conversation, Ann! I love how you see your depth as an anchor - grounding yet insightful. Your perspective on hormones shaping experiences is intriguing. Clearly, your husband and grandson recognise something very special in you. And although you say you don’t write poetry, the way you express yourself feels poetic in its own way. Thanks again.
Wow, Deborah, now I found both this post and the comment you were referring to and I am so glad you shared the link. Your words in both of them move me deeply. I am so touched by the vulnerability you are sharing here, and the beautiful, gentle response. The sea connects all of us who carry weight, but by sharing the burden we can float instead of sink. ❤️
Oh Sarah, I'm so pleased that my story resonates with you! I've been wanting to find a way of reaching out and letting others know that they're not alone and that indeed, many of us carry depth (although we may have another name for it. This was my eighth post and somehow those muses decided to turn it into a story. I'm not complaining but when I read your beautiful words this morning, virtually at the same time I was replying to Amanda, I thought to myself, I must tell Sarah, I must! ❤️
Deborah, I find so much solace in your words. This resonated so deeply and I find myself wanting to ask - do you suppose many of us who carry this weight find ourselves drawn to the sea?
Astrologically, I’m a water sign, and typology-wise, I’m a dominant feeling type, so water has always felt like my first ‘home.’ It’s more than just an element; it’s a deep connection woven into my DNA. For my motherline traces back to the Sea Peoples, those ancient voyagers who lived and breathed the ocean. Perhaps that’s where the ‘pirate’ in me comes from, a restless spirit forever needing to keep the horizon in view.
But the sea offers more than just a sense of heritage; it gives me freedom. Beyond the waters I see and touch, I’m drawn to those 'living waters' below, a world teeming with mystery, depth and beauty. There’s something in the sensory pull of the ocean: the salt-laden air that fills my lungs, the rhythmic crash of waves that steadies my heart, and the cool touch of water that feels like both release and connection. It’s as though the sea absorbs some of the weight I carry, offering a space to breathe and let go.
Living by the sea brings perspective. That vast expanse, stretching endlessly to meet the sky, reminds me that even amidst life’s storms, calm will come again. The tides ebb and flow, reflecting the rhythm of existence ... the highs, the lows, the moments of stillness in between. It’s a mirror to my inner world, showing me strength even when I feel unsteady.
For me, the coast isn’t just where I live, it’s where I truly feel alive. And deep within its waters, I feel tethered to something greater. I’m drawn to a great anchor buried far below, its chains connecting me to generations of history and to the Sea Peoples whose daring spirit still whispers across the waves. That anchor doesn’t weigh me down; it holds me steady, offering a place to rest while keeping my horizon clear.
Thank you so much for asking the question, Amanda. It’s sparked a wonderful reflection for me. I’ve even made a note in my journal to write more about those 'Sea People' and the story of my motherline as there’s so much to uncover there. Are you, too, drawn to the sea and its ‘living waters’? I wonder if its rhythm, vastness and mystery speaks to you as it does to me.
'The sensory pull of the ocean' - I love that. And I very much look forward to you writing more about the 'Sea People' from your motherline.
Yes, I am also drawn to the sea. I relocated to be close to it around a year and a half ago and have never felt more at home. I don't think anything could persuade me inland!
Oh my goodness Amanda, I did waffle on in my reply, apologies! I think I’ve started writing a new post here on the screen instead of in my journal. I do that, something will intrigue me like your question and being a poet I am, my answer spirals itself out in all directions.
Whenever I find myself ‘inland’ without a lake or a river nearby, I often feel landlocked. You see, I crave the sea and dream of those living waters, above and below, often.
That’s wonderful that you too live close to the enigmatic sea. There’s such an indescribable joy in doing so.
Not at all! I loved reading your reply. It sparked curiosity in me as I wondered about where my own motherline might trace back to.
I didn't realise how much I needed to be near the sea until I made the specific choice to be permanently beside it. There is something about the swelling of water beneath rocks that creates a soundwave so deep I can feel its resonance in my chest. It makes my daily worries seem so insignificant.
I have noticed I also feel landlocked when I travel inland, I can smell the change in the air and I feel great relief when I return to the edges!
The edges, I love that! Yes, it's so true. Thank you, Amanda. 🌊🩵🐚
Thank you for this lovely, soulful...and yes, poetic...rendering of beauty that a life of depth such as yours can inspire, Deborah. I'm thrilled we've both found community with others of like heart and mind here on Substack. ❤️
Thank you so much Jenna, my dear Substack Sister, for your beautiful and heartfelt message! I truly adore this space on Substack - it’s been such an inspiring sanctuary that it moved me to write a short story about my journey here and the reason I came in the first place: to seek kindred spirits. ❤️
Burden, beauty. Both.
Shared ache's echo cuts across.
Bridging, belonging.
Beautifully expressed! I love how you’ve captured the way shared pain bridges connection and belonging. Thank you so much, Marisol.