In the Arms of the Ocean Mother
June 2024
It’s been years since I’ve put my body in the arms of the ocean. It’s always too cold or windy or too rough or too something to get me in past my toes. Maybe it even feels impolite to make the water carry me, to demand that she take me in her arms.
On this trip to the beach I’ve vowed to put my body, fully immersed, into the ocean every single day. I have not laid flowers or water or anything but a flame on my little traveling altar- my body in the water is the offering, the purification of the elements. I am surrendering myself to her in the way only a child knows how- in the crying demand to be held and carried, for the pleasure of knowing that she will.
Will I be enough? I wonder on my first steps out into the water, unconvinced of my own holiness. I’ve already been baptized to remove my sinfulness, just a baby as I was held head to fount, and I wonder if that water trickled down my neck to remind me of how easy it is to become unclean again. How even as a baby I was not protected from the ails of a body, a vessel of certain separateness from what is good, wholesome, sacred.
My body shudders at the cold, despite the 78 degree heat I watch as my arms become covered in goosebumps, my toes curl in the sand. The water feels like another world. But I’m determined, I choose to take my word seriously, unwilling to shrink from this dance with my own heart, with the Mother. My cold legs keep wading into the water despite their discomfort, and each wave that crashes into new heights of my thighs makes my heart pounce and I squeal, I can’t help it. I turn my head away as if my gaze is what is causing the chill, as if I would turn back for the comfort of my old beach chair roasting in the sun.
With just a breath, I dive. Splashing right into the surf like a child at their first swimming lesson. I remember the days of guppy group at my YMCA, as I doggy paddle my way out further because I am overtaken with joy that makes me forgetful of how an adult is supposed to swim. I am lost in my own delight to be swimming, pummeling into waves and coating myself in lush salty water.
My curves lined by the cooing roll of the waves, I find myself becoming totally part of her. Day in and day out I pray for her to hold me, and today I actually lay myself down to be held. I want to feel all the places where we match, where I am her and she is me. I want to know for once that this body, this weird and wonderful thing is both hers and mine, an altar for a sumptuous life.
I think of nectarines dribbling down my chin and the fruit I avoid for such a reason. Cleanliness has become an overlay for goodness, why be messy when I can be holy? Who’s voice is it in my head though, who is it that believes a woman to be sterile and void of desire?
This wild body for eons has craved the sultry drip of salt, the sweet juice of adventure, the heat of a sensuality for myself. Every day a pilgrim in the water, I become the delectable fruit for her to feast on. I am the gift that only I can give, and I witness my Mother divine greedily take me in. A deep satisfaction and delight overwhelms me, a laugh jumps out of me.
There is a transcendental moment that occurs, entirely spontaneous, where the very thing I’ve been trying to convince myself of becomes innate. No longer is it a labor to be on my knees, hands clasped together in a prayer to find that love for myself that I know exists somewhere inside me. Gone is the fear of my unworthiness, released is the insecurity of my offering being too selfish, for what deity would accept my body as prasad? Here I am, floating in the embrace of the earth, gazing up into the morning sky.
She washes me clean not because I am dirty, but because so generous is her love for me to begin again, to discover myself new with each day. I do not have to be bound by my old fears of beliefs, I can claim myself as my own, holy, hers, no words required. Just by laying down, giving myself over, I am found.