Dancing with the Beach
Cissy White – Dancing with the Beach
Size 10 and triple E. Substantial. That’s me. Large as my feet are they still manage, in parts, to be bony. Though bony, they are bulbous and fleshy and easy to bruise. My pinky toe is an unwanted child squished into family photos. She plays half size just to belong but is damaged with broken nails and misshapen with the effort of trying to fit in.
Still, since age 40, I adore my feet. At the ocean, they are exquisite dance partners. I can follow without lead. The rocks and sand underneath hold me as gingerly as a little girl with a loving Daddy who lets me step on him and then carries.
I hunt sea glass not with my hands or my eyes but my feet. My back is to the water. I feel the wind on my back and let the moisture sneak up and over my shoulders. My feet track the tide, tell me where we will hunt and I follow.
In soft soled sneakers I can feel the rocks underneath. I tend to stand still and move backwards. I look towards the shore instead of the water. I am with the salty sandy earth. Only occasionally do I let a strong wave cut in, turning my attention to the stunning sky line, the clouds hovering above in animal shapes. I try not to get distracted with the commuter boat, wondering where people are going, try not to think of wind energy with the turbine turning in Hulll. I breathe up the smell, the sea weed and fish and turn toward the ground, and walk happy with eyes cast down.
When I hunt alone I stretch and dance. I am unselfconscious of eyes in homes or people in boats. I can’t see them and am engrossed, like a practitioner doing Tai Chi. I have my own ritual. First, I stand tall and stretch up to the sun and sky. Then, I put hair in pony tail; stick Ziploc baggies in back pockets. I am an athlete in warm up.
When it is time, the music of waves, in random rhythms move me. I hinge at the waist and bend. My flat back parallel to the ground, my hands could but do not reach down. They rest on my back as my gaze floats over the ground. In this posture, I am half in meditation and half a speed skater. I never “touch down” without intention. When the sand offers up a gem that says “Rescue me,” I palm it. I rub and remove sand and holding it as if to say, “There. There,” before homing her in a bag, a guppy waiting to join the other fish in the tank.
My feet slide to the left, hop to the back, take me diagonal over rocks. I follow wherever they track. Sometimes, I go in a circle marking a boundary around a scared space knowing something waits. It is not always sea glass, a heart-shaped rock, or even pottery but an insight or a feeling. I know when I have found it as my feet will move me along.
It is not a private place. People, mostly men walk with dogs and binoculars and fishing poles come too. I do not rise to meet them. I wave, pet the dogs curious enough to bound over. I am loyal to the song and the ground. The beach, though rocky, is always solid thanks to my triple E width, size 10 feet who have helped me learn to move into stillness.
I think the ocean is also happy to see me. A less delicate looking polished set of bare foot would not hold the sturdy ocean in her toes. I, when the beach is tired, can lift her up and let her rest. When she is dirty, I pick up the litter and debris of others. I am graced with gems but will return favors. I am loving and loyal and grateful for these feet.
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