The sun and I are destined to be bitter enemies. The sun is bright and hot; I am pale and freckled. If the sun and I are forced to play nicely for so much as 10 minutes, I will end our rendezvous burning and blistered and pouting. I've tried aloe vera, bathing in tea, and wearing unsightly hats, but rarely have I emerged from the sun's dastardly clutches unscathed.
Nevertheless, I've long had an obsession with the sun's closest companion: the sea. When I was little and my parents would sunbathe, I would sit (sunscreened, sulking, and fully clothed) on the beach, staring at the water. I couldn't deny how beautiful a pair the sun and sea made, as golden light threaded the blue waves, illuminated the white sand kissed by water. I rarely braved actually introducing myself to the ocean. I would try, tip-toeing my way into the shallows--and would soon be scampering out, complaining of goosebumps and salt and the ever-present sun hellbent on roasting me like a duck. Still, albeit from afar, I was in awe. The cry of gulls and the smell of brine were mesmerizing, luring me into the spell of the sea.
Maybe it's the writer in me who loves the ocean. Countless stories have been told about the sea--of pirates who plunder it, of sailors who love it, of castaways who fear it. No words can describe the beauty of the sun meeting the sea, and then disappearing beneath its waves: thus, it becomes a writer's challenge. Maybe, as an actor, I find myself drawn to the ocean because, like any interesting character, it is constantly changing and evolving, endlessly in action. Maybe I'm frustrated that I can't be more like the ocean; I envy its beauty and grace and power, its ability to keep others buoyant. Maybe it moves me to think that it is pulled by the light of the moon, and me by the Light of the world.
I'm also afraid of the ocean. When I was little, I would dream that I was drowning, over and over, and that my fate was to sit forever on the ocean floor, alone. I feared sharks. I feared drowning. I feared floundering helplessly. I feared sinking. Every day, I still do.
And yet, I remain under the ocean's spell. Recently, when stress threatens to overwhelm me, I've started to close my eyes and envision myself in rowboat. It rocks, gently. It's blue. Everything is blue--the boat, the oars, the still sea, the sky like blue-black velvet above and around me. Only the full moon above is silver, as is its twin in the water, in which I dip my oar. It shimmers. I am at peace.
Sometimes, in a memory box in my closet, I'll find a shell that I've spirited away from a trip to the beach. I'll press it to my ear, and I'll hear the sea singing to me, and I'll realize that it's the song that's been within me all along.
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Nevertheless, I've long had an obsession with the sun's closest companion: the sea. When I was little and my parents would sunbathe, I would sit (sunscreened, sulking, and fully clothed) on the beach, staring at the water. I couldn't deny how beautiful a pair the sun and sea made, as golden light threaded the blue waves, illuminated the white sand kissed by water. I rarely braved actually introducing myself to the ocean. I would try, tip-toeing my way into the shallows--and would soon be scampering out, complaining of goosebumps and salt and the ever-present sun hellbent on roasting me like a duck. Still, albeit from afar, I was in awe. The cry of gulls and the smell of brine were mesmerizing, luring me into the spell of the sea.
Maybe it's the writer in me who loves the ocean. Countless stories have been told about the sea--of pirates who plunder it, of sailors who love it, of castaways who fear it. No words can describe the beauty of the sun meeting the sea, and then disappearing beneath its waves: thus, it becomes a writer's challenge. Maybe, as an actor, I find myself drawn to the ocean because, like any interesting character, it is constantly changing and evolving, endlessly in action. Maybe I'm frustrated that I can't be more like the ocean; I envy its beauty and grace and power, its ability to keep others buoyant. Maybe it moves me to think that it is pulled by the light of the moon, and me by the Light of the world.
I'm also afraid of the ocean. When I was little, I would dream that I was drowning, over and over, and that my fate was to sit forever on the ocean floor, alone. I feared sharks. I feared drowning. I feared floundering helplessly. I feared sinking. Every day, I still do.
And yet, I remain under the ocean's spell. Recently, when stress threatens to overwhelm me, I've started to close my eyes and envision myself in rowboat. It rocks, gently. It's blue. Everything is blue--the boat, the oars, the still sea, the sky like blue-black velvet above and around me. Only the full moon above is silver, as is its twin in the water, in which I dip my oar. It shimmers. I am at peace.
Sometimes, in a memory box in my closet, I'll find a shell that I've spirited away from a trip to the beach. I'll press it to my ear, and I'll hear the sea singing to me, and I'll realize that it's the song that's been within me all along.
