Favorite Place

ocean curl NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Of all scenes

And joys and sorrows,

Of all the steps

And breaths

And sense,

There is the ebb and flow

And stillness,

That makes this

Movement

My heart’s

Place.

 

 

For Sunday Stills: Places

 

 

Color Me Home

 

It would be the last place anyone would look, and the first thing everyone would see.

It made it perfect.

She always gravitated toward hiding in plain sight. There was equity in the blinding effect of what people learned to not see or did not know could be there in the first place.

How long would it take, she wondered, for her cover to be blown?

The longest had been almost four weeks. The closest call had her discovered before the first patch of paint dried. She’d almost lost everything that day, and the consequences were brutal, but she’d learned from it. As she had from every challenge and obstacle. Even those that were not meant to be instructive.

That was how she rolled. How she wrest back some control.

For now, this box of aqua perched on sand, seasonally emptied of its contents, was home.

The surf a lullaby.

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

 

Not Here!

KeithKreates253

Photo: Keith Channing

 

They had everything.

The Papa Chair. The Mama blanket. The two Cub chairs. The inner tubes: one small, one large. Even tin cans emptied to serve as sand pails in the refilled beach’s rectangle.

What a perfect day!

The lake awaited, wet and cool. The silty mud. The pebbles, the weeds to wade across or pull.

They swam. They flipped. They raced. They flopped.

The hours passed. The contents of the picnic basket made their tummies nice and full.

They rested till the water once more called.

Then one cub disappeared.

“Nicko!” they yelled, frantic with the possibility of the awfulness that might unfold.

“One moment!” the junior responded from the direction of the small structure. “I’m not done.”

Relief was quickly replaced by wonder only to be followed by surprise and whiff of horror.

“Nicko??!!?” the Mama dashed across the small beach to stop what was already well set into motion. “That’s not an outhouse! It’s my changing room! Go in the bushes! Not here!”

 

 

 

For Keith’s Kreative Kue #253

 

 

 

A Different Kind Of Home

A different kind of home

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

A moment

For the memory of

A different kind of home,

Where sun sparkles

On the water

And you feel your soul

Fold along the crease

Of rolling foam,

And where your spirit

Sings the song of places

It has long known

How to roam.

 

 

 

Zen Essence

calm curl NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

In the moment of the soft swell

Of a calm curl,

The gentle foam

Belays the power of

The waves that lift ocean liners

And cradle whales.

A breath

Before

Exhale.

 

 

Thank you, Terri, for this prompt. Perfect for today. For me, the shore is the ultimate calibrator. I took this photo in Ogonquit, Maine, quite too many years ago. Time to go back. Time to go to the beach. Any beach. For breath, for awe, for space, for zen.

For Sunday Stills: Essence of Zen

 

A Bit Of Clarity

Photo: Sue Vincent

She always went to the beach for a bit of clarity.

The movement of the water on the sand brought her back into her own breath. The rush of energy reminded her of the push of arteries, the pull of veins. The predictably irregular rhythm of the surf reminded her how ebb and flow do not mean that things will be uniform. They’ll come and go. Each unique. Each set its own and inseparable from what flowed forth before and what is following.

She could count on a wave and then another and another, on the rise and fall, the crash and wash, the small detritus that each leaves and yet is part of what had been and what will be and what just is.

Like life.

Like the muddy, murky, uncertainties of everything.

Where the one thing she could trust was that another wave will come, and that even the biggest wave retreats, at some point, in wavelets of resignation. As another one rolls in.

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto challenge

 

 

Endless Harmony

a solitary figure on a beach against a wide ocean.

Photo: Sue Vincent

 

She’d never have believed the vastness had she not been there to see it.

In person.

On the edge of endlessness.

The breath of eons crashing at her feet.

The spray of ancient rhythms that had been there

All along.

Through war and storm and hope and flood and cold and warm and days like this when no one but herself was there to witness it.

She’d never have believed the power that it held, contained within each curl of wave, in every roll of whitecap licking sand.

It filled her.

With awe and ache and gnawing yearning to something that went beyond her words and into thoughts unformed, or perhaps ones made of memories in utero: the hiss, the beat, the drums of hearts.

And this.

Another memory

To merge into

In endless harmony.

 

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto (2nd week)

 

Preview Warmth

Preview Warmth NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Feel the midday

Glow expand

Sense the gently

Heated sand.

Dampened clothes,

Digging hands,

China they’re intent

To find.

Make the most

Of wonderland.

It previews warmth

So close behind.

 

 

 

For Terri’s Sunday Stills Challenge: Warmth

 

 

Its Own Reward

Its own reward NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

The sun’s reflection on the water.

Energy in small waves stored.

The light

The breath

The exhalation.

Life’s strumming flow

Its own reward.

 

 

 

For the Lens-Artist Photo Challenge: Less is more