As I watch this pattern of life that does not need me in order for it to persist, I ache for it to swallow me. To become one with the ocean. But I submerge myself in the water, patted back and forth by the waves as a ball of string with a kitten; never “one.”

The term “one” has been stolen by yogis, hippies and John Lennon. I understand it in a broader sense. I want the endlessness this ocean represents to belong to me--for “forever” to be carried in a locket near my heart. That’s not meant to sound cheesy. I don’t know how to say it.

Reading an essay on an academic’s conversion to Christianity, I am distracted from the meaning by the form. Words glisten on the page with far more power, potency and richness than gems. I want to own them. Don’t I already? I know these words well. Yet we are not at peace.

She spews words like “grace” and “catechism” much as the ocean does. The salient words canvass my mind in a rushing gale. What do they do to me? What do I want here?

I am reduced to scraping, trying to understand. I am enlarged by this fear, which feels a lot like awakening; a lot like a baptism.

The dimensions grow thin. At the water, I feel the earth eroding under waves. The sands are shifting. My own balance is quaking. I wade in.

I feel like a turtle in one of the eggs buried nearby. A whole world of new molecules and colors and light awaits. One peck could crack open this shell. One web-thin membrane stands between me and a different sort of birth. Everything is ready.

A long stream of seaweed clamps around my forearm. The tide pulls. I am pushed over. Caught, but not swallowed. Yet.