The Sea Inside
When the earth was formless and void,
what did You see?
What shimmered in that hush
before the first word?
What stirred in You,
to utter light
into the silence?
When the Spirit hovered over the waters,
did it tremble?
Did it dance like flame on glass,
or curl like breath in chill?
Was there a voice crying out–
"The world's too big, Mom."
Did You respond,
soft as morning mist,
"Focus on my voice, honey."
Maybe then You,
not striking like lightning,
but searching,
traced the face of the waters
with open hands,
with aching care.
Maybe then,
You wrapped Your arms around the chaos,
and rocked it,
slowly,
into form.
Maybe You whispered,
"Let there be light,"
not as decree,
but as lullaby.
As a promise.
As a nightlight left on
for a child afraid of the dark.
What if the ocean
was a puddle of tears
with no end,
sweeping over the whole universe
and holding it
in grief?
What if the sea
was lonely?
What if creation
was not a shout,
but a sob?
A whisper into weeping?
A hand cupping the swell of ache,
saying:
I see you.
I'm here.
You're not alone.
What if the Spirit of God
trembled with mercy,
and in that trembling,
began to dream—
not with thunder,
but with tenderness?
What if She dreamed
of stars like freckles on a child's face,
of galaxies that danced without shame,
something vast,
mercurial,
and marvelous—
big enough to breathe?
And then–
almost as an afterthought,
but really the heart of it all—
She dreamed
of a little blue ball.
A world where the sea
could finally laugh,
and live,
and be loved
deliberately.
What if
the sea
still echoes
inside me?
What if
the great waters
cry all over again
with each breath
I take
on this little blue ball?
What if
the cry
is still held
in the in-between,
hovering,
waiting
for light
to answer?
What if,
inside my mind,
the Spirit hovers—
still,
again,
forever—
moved by my chaos,
my grief,
my wide-eyed wonder?
What if
She dreams all over again
each time I open my eyes?
Could it be
the sea
teaches me
how to cry?
How to feel it all
without drowning?
How to be held
even in the flood?
What if
the sea
is the part of me
that moves–
that becomes?
But then–
what if,
when the waters wept
You were hearing
Your own weeping?
Maybe
the waters
were always in Your heart.
What if
I am living
inside the mind of God—
not as figment,
but as fragment
of a holy dream?
What if
I am dreaming
made flesh,
light
wrapped in longing,
water
woven into bone?
What if this whole world—
every tide,
every birth,
every quiet sob in the dark—
is the echo
of a God
who once wept
and then
loved Herself
into being?
And what if
I am
the Spirit's answer
to the sea's first cry?
What if
I am
the dream of God,
cradled
in self-compassion?
What if
that
is what it means
to be
alive?