Friday, September 05, 2014

عُمان‎ بحر

I love that the ocean -- despite its weight and vastness -- moves.  Watching the tide pull away from the Muscat shoreline and slip back into the Sea of Oman, I considered the immense power behind the water's retreat.  The sea tolerates lesser beings, as it knows it will outlast them.  Seagulls had embroidered meandering tracks in the wet sand, but only two terns had stayed to attest to the work; my own tracks were less delicate and attested more to improper footwear than to industry of motion.  Idly collecting shells from the exposed sand produced an unexpected Fibonacci sequence:  one brown, one yellow, two white, three red...  As I mathematically arranged the shells on my palm, the sun ate my exposed skin without comment.  The terns were equally unmoved and looked drowsy in the heat.

E.B. White says the sound of the sea is the most time-effacing sound there is; I don't know how long I stood there on the shore, clutching my shells and trying to leave an impression on the gulls and the tide.  Everything is full of promise in the beginning.  The challenge is learning how to engage it.