With Love and Salt;

We are but passing ships, you, and I... Still, I hope somehow this finds you well.

Many believers tell me that I am the fortunate one, to have seen so many parts of the world so early on in life. They speak with envy and jealousy on their lips, longing to know how I managed to cut myself free from the same weights they choose to let hold them down. In some ways they are right. I have been fortunate in many things. My eyes have beheld many beauties. I am not weightless as they say, but I chose a long time ago that some things are better left behind. Life is too short to weary yourself with things that do not truly matter to you. Or at least this is what I tell myself to wash away the sting of guilt. Too bad salt water only makes the sting worst. But time is too precious to be anchored to one thing. This is what I have chosen to believe to make all these years spent out at sea more bearable. Sometimes my feet miss the ground, but then I see a faraway ship on the horizon and my feet become restless, longing to go out and meet it.

The skeptics only mock, questioning why I am incapable of keeping my feet in one place. As I pass them by on the streets they watch me through raised eyebrows, standing at a distance and holding their children close, as if I am a disease that might infect them if they come to nearby.

“Only misery lives such a life,” they say.

After all, “how can a flower bloom if it has no roots?” They reason. “Only a weed can be so shallow.”

But they speak only with knowledge of the mainland. They know nothing of the sea or the things that it grows.

“It’s a sickness,” they whisper.

And “God does not take kindly to those who wander.”

They pass around their accusations, though they secretly envy my talent to rid of their judgements and expectations from my mind. They too long to feel free. It is skill to sail through life without caring too much about the opinions of others. A skill that is learned over time and distance. I used to care so much that it would cripple me. I learned some years ago that this is what caused us to drift apart. You wanted to sail through every storm with me, but I was too afraid to let you into my bad weather. The sea is a good teacher; unconcerned with where the wind takes it, and its waves cannot be controlled. But like the sea, the world is wild and vast, and our hearts are not big enough for it.

“She’ll run everything good out of her life,” the skeptics go on,

And they are right. Without a clear course, the waves will win every time. I am afraid that too many have mistaken my being tossed around by the waves, as freedom. If they looked a little closer, they would see that I am bruised, and I am battered, and my heart is full of salt.

We are but passing ships, you, and I... Still, I hope somehow this find you well.

It’s been twelve long years that I have been stuck in this storm. Twelve years of nothing but fog. I left the mainland when I was eighteen, only ever returning for the sake of my young sisters and my grandfather's poor health, and never staying for long. I left hoping to find a calm place. Somewhere my soul can rest without the reminder of the mainland's hidden rocks and crevices; all its seams filled with memories of a love as wild as the sea. Memories of you.

It has been two years now since I have landed on new shores. This might be a new record for me, because I have never stayed in one place for this long. I took a job as a keeper of the light, watching over the old lighthouse that rests along the edge of the cove as it overlooks my favorite place, the sea. My mother tells me it is ironic that the thing I have finally chosen to tie myself too is the sea, for it lacks more in contentment and is more unsteady than I am.

“A perfect match.” She jokes. But every joke has a little truth to it.

It has been twelve long years since I left you. I thought over time, the salt would wash you away. Why is it then, that every new place I see is just another place I long to share with you? All I have is this message in a bottle and the prayer that, just this once, the sea will be on my side. But God does not take kindly to wanderers, and the seas obeys no one. In those twelve years we have been nothing but passing ships, both of us drifting and always slightly out of each-others reach.

I have tried to be happy in one place. I have been to many beautiful lands where I envisioned myself starting a life and growing old. But my ship lost its anchor long ago, and I can’t seem to stop the drifting. You were my first, but I have tried to love another. I married a man who had a heart that was crystal blue - Genuine and pure, for all the world to look inside. He was steady and sure and all the things that I did not know how to be. I tied myself to him with hopes that he could be the one to keep me grounded and wash me clean of this salt. I was in love with his turquoise soul, and it was to feel his goodness that I stayed by his side for so long. He had a love that was kind, and I fell for him even though my heart still belonged to another. People who say you can’t be in love with two things at once have never been to sea. On the sea there will always be two halves of one heart; one half belongs to someone on the shore, and the other half to the sea itself. His goodness was never meant to live on such harsh waters, and he only left the shore for my sake, hoping to bring happiness to my restless soul. If only he knew it was the person he was that brought me happiness. I was lucky to have held on to such a treasure for as long as I did. He was just another passing ship, one that was laid to rest too soon and returned to the ocean floor. I love the sea, but it has been cruel to me.

Now I sit, day after day, under the lighthouse. Its shadow paints the rocks along the cove, and its light reaches the far and dark waters, signaling a refuge for all the weary souls out at sea. Below the lighthouse there is a busy harbor, full of strangers and ships that come and go. Some are fishermen, others are merchants, sea captains, tourists or travelers. But some are simply wanderers like me. Many come from far off places I have never been. I have considered, many times, jumping on one of those ships, but I can no longer bring myself to leave this lighthouse. In every wanderer, I see the resemblance of you. Sometimes it is in brightness of their smile, and other times it is in green of their eyes. When they smile in my direction or they look my way, it is you I see smiling or looking back at me.

I look out on the horizon and see a faraway ship in the distance, and the ships that once took me away are now the very thing that hold me to the shore. The sea gives and the sea takes away, and in that, the sea reminds me of you. This is the reason why I stay. Every passing ship is the chance the sea might carry you back to me. So, I sit under the lighthouse hoping you are on the next far away ship; that you will see its light, and in it, you will think of me. I’ll wait and place another message in a bottle and give it to the sea, hoping it will find you through the waves and that, this time, you won’t pass me by.

The salt is wearing everything away. I can see the wood weather and the metal rust, but somehow it has only preserved you in my mind. It is a petrified memory of when we were as wild, and as restless, and as strong willed as the waves we danced in. I am growing older. My skin is getting thinner, and I feel cold, and my bones are beginning to ache. I wonder, if you saw me now, would you recognize my face? I do not fear ageing. I hold that petrified memory in my mind, and it makes me feel young and warm again, running with you in the heat of summer. Even if the salt wears me away and I become sand before your ship ever reaches the harbor, I will always be grateful for the memory of the boy whose love was like the sea.

We are but passing ships, you and I, but I will always be anchored to you; forevermore.

With love and salt,

- the girl under the lighthouse.