Mālama ka 'aina

Little mini special beach, drawing me in from the very start. Leaning my knees into the volcanic wall, not understanding the pull, but usually able to feel small pieces of peace here. Even before, when it was strewn with the aftermath.

Today, stumbling down the spilled stoned ledge, already wet with sweat. Didn't know how deep the mess would go. Urgency in the sense of racing against the rising tide, but otherwise, there is calm, there is control, there is a rhythm.

Bathing suits. So many bathing suits, all tangled and torn and weighed down with sand. Not burned, just a mess. Pulling slowly, trying not to rip and lose the lead. Must have been from the shop next door. Each mangled mess acts as a weighted sand bag that I slowly drag back up to the wall and lift one by one over my head.

Metal. Old ballasts, crinkled roofs. Rusted hinges and screws, hundreds and hundreds of nails. Long lengthy pipes hiding under rocks and wet sand, so long, bleeding orange puddles where they've laid buried for almost a whole year. The sand is inside, everywhere. The pipes run deep. I pull them out.

All me.
My therapist says I need to drastically improve my self esteem, so here I am.

Ocean nudges me, forcing me to stop. I realize I've been shoveling the same hole for awhile, each wave rushing in to fill any sand I take. The tide wins, gleefully enveloping the corner of metal that begrudgingly hides behind the rock. Might have to stay there awhile longer. I'll be thinking of that last piece.

It's a good day when my body hurts like this. I like this hurt. I like this pride. Such a special spot.