A different day entirely. A day with ominous skies and sweeping rains. Mist. My weather.
We went to the beach this morning at 6:30 with some Hawaiian and Scottish artists, and while the others were discussing art and colors, drawing and painting, I strayed away, walking the surf, feeling the sand course under my feet in its urge to follow the sea.
What was I looking for?
My muse, obviously. He wasn’t around but he did sent me some good inspirational vibes, like a trusted muse should. The vibes encouraged me to travel further than the looking, to focus on other senses, too. I felt the spray of the ocean mix in with the rain and touch my skin. I tasted the salt in the air.
I also tried to tune to the quietest sound. I listened to what was beyond the rumble of the surf, the chattering of birds, the words of fellow beach walkers carried by the wind, beyond the pattering of rain on the fiberglass hulls of boats. I walked with my eyes closed when I picked up on a sound within the surf’s rumble, underneath the wash of waves, a wee sound, no more than the softest whispering. The susurrus of fizzing spume.
The quietest sound.
Mina Witteman 