Ocean Air

Each breath is clean, crisp, and clear. My head is cleared of clouds, my muscles cleared of aches, my thoughts cleared of thoughts.

Eyes closed, I remember a saying. Perhaps it is an old Chinese saying. More likely it is a piece of advice Uncle Iroh once gave Prince Zuko. The water has a way of smoothing over even the roughest of stones, until you are left with a smooth pebble. I feel like a textured pebble, allowing the sound of each wave to soften my edges.

Without sight, I could be anywhere. I could be on the shores of Asturias, listening to the waves crash. I could be in Palma or Portugal with Iris, listening to the ocean lap against the sand. I could be with my siblings on North beach, listening to the lake, or with my mother in Norway, listening to the movement of the fjord. The only constant in these varied sounds is the knowledge that there will be a next wave. The brief pause, the millisecond of tranquility between each wave, hangs in the air like an unexpected gift, but before it can be fully savored it is replaced with the beginning of the next crash.

Looking at the jagged, misshaped rocks below me, I watch the water seep into every possible crevice. No matter how far, how hidden, the white blue wave soaks into each gap before leaving as quickly as it came. Those rocks too are changed by the water. Each wave like a moment, an event, a feeling, gone right as you begin to understand the shape of it. There isn’t enough time to absorb its impact and already the next one has arrived. Some waves are tranquil, others devastating. Through it all the rock survives, albeit changed.

I feel like a rock who has intentionally placed herself near strong waters. I know the waves will change me, but I don’t know how. The beach I was born on was chosen for me. Chipped off my mother rock, I fell under an unforgiving current. I felt lost, submerged, invisible. There were moments of beauty, times of peace and quiet, but all in all this was not a pleasant home. It shaped me nevertheless, giving me ragged edges and pockmarked holes. After eighteen years, I became a free pebble, one who could throw herself into the waters and choose a new home.

I chose Swarthmore. A curated beach, it was the kind of place where people tried to harness the waves. Arrogant, ambitious pebbles we were. We thought we could command the waves and form ourselves out of sheer will. What were we if not the makers of our own destiny, the shapers of our own world. We moved against waves a thousand times our size. We crashed against one another, sometimes leaving dents and other times creating beauty. My time on this beach was marked by wildness, by ego, and by the constant, delicate hope that we were becoming better. At the end of this four year experiment, we were unrecognizable.

My next choice was Louisville. After learning that even well tended beaches are unpredictable, I decided to make my home in a beach known for its dangerous waves. In this place, some pebbles were swept away entirely. Others were dashed against the rocks, crumbling under the sudden force of the world. But the pebbles that survived in this place were tougher, made of strong material, resilient against the forces of nature. Here, the true lines of my identity emerged. Finally, I was beginning to see what kind of pebble I could become. In this new home, I was thrown about and pushed down and repeatedly drowned. And yet I stayed. I knew what I had chosen, and I was ready to be both stubborn and flexible. I wanted this place to change me while I held on to the core parts of myself. I wanted to be rock and water all at once. It was a tumultuous time, and I collided with many other pebbles. But in the end, I found fellow adventurers and we built a wall of friendship against the constant, punishing waters.

After this, I was ready for a break. I dreamed of a sunny beach, one with soft waves that lapped against you, one where pebbles could exist in whatever form they chose. As luck would have it, I found exactly such a place. In Sevilla, I was so happy. The extra defenses I had tacked onto myself, the seashells and the moss and the minerals, I let fall away. Slowly, I allowed the water to make me soft and whole again. Just another peaceful pebble lying on the shores, soaking in the light and laughter and life.

Of course, after just a year, I chose to depart from this most joyous of beaches. Why? Because I am a foolish pebble with vague ambitions. I know there is more of me that lies dormant, and I am curious to see what I am truly made of. So, I find a new home. I end up in a place that is neither tumultuous nor tranquil. I find a shore away from shores. Madrid, despite being in Spain, is 5 hours in any direction away from water. It is my first utterly dry home. In Chicago, there was a giant lake. Swarthmore and Louisville had rivers. Sevilla had it all: a river, the sea, the ocean. But here in Madrid, there is nothing but dryness. The ground, the air, the sky, is as dry as can be. In this home, I can feel my surfaces crack a little. I yearn for water against my skin. What is a pebble doing so far from the waves? It is an inquisitive pebble, a mad scientist pebble, a pebble who puts herself on new, dangerous beaches just to see if she can survive.

And I have. After a few months, I found other dry, lost pebbles with whom to build a community. A pebble family. Still, it is not the sort of place where I want to live. You see, the benefit to being a foolish, ambitious, mad scientist pebble is that I now know in what conditions I will thrive. I’ve learned that I am a creature of water, that without waves, I am lost. Sitting here on the coast of Normandy, immersed in the sights and sounds of the English channel, I know that this is what home sounds like. I am a pebble who needs waves, both cruel and calm, to live and grow and become the best pebble I can be.