From ages 2 to 7, we spent most of our family holidays in southern Brittany, where my Mum had grown up.
While drawing in the sand and building sandcastles was fun, what I loved most was when the tide was low enough for me to roam the dark granite rocks that surrounded my Mum’s favourite beach.
My only goal was to cautiously move from rock to rock so as not to slip, feeling their ruggedness and crevices under my feet.
And sitting on the dry ones so I could pause and run my fingers over their creases blending with a multitude of seaweed.
I was very careful about where I put my hands though, because tiny crabs often scurried by at lightning speed. And I was worried they might think it fun to pinch and pull my fingers.
Slowing down to simply sit there was enough of an enjoyment for me, letting the breeze caress my face, and savouring the sea salt gliding onto my lips.
All the while, the sound of the waves’ regular rumble in the distance provided such a soothing soundtrack I was often captivated by just being still.
The shouts and laughs of other kids playing on the sand… The principles I’d been taught at school… The endless opinions I’d overheard on my Mum’s ever-present radio… The stories I’d been told… All became insignificant.
Irrelevant.
Their noise vanished from my head. Their energy dissolved. They were weightless…
Impalpable amidst the natural joy of simply being alive.
Of simply being.
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