The Lick of Salt on Your Skin

On the horizon, the beacon beats, already lit in the twilight; so easily overlooked by us travellers and tourists as we pass through. The wise ones who have gathered to bless the sinking of the sun, they see with clear eyes, and are strengthened by the sight. The line of beacons stretches far, away round the coast, joined by those who witness it. A net of light unfurls, when the dark melts the land, sea, and sky together.

Down by the shore, looking out to the hills across the voe, with the wild open sky above: this is a thin place. Time reaches and buckles, touches itself. It leaks through, sparks through, shines through. Everything that ever was, exists here. We have known, and forgotten, the remembrance is traced in our veins.

You have to be there to see it though. If you want to go through, you must make the leap in person. This is not visible in a photo or a video, will not be Vimeo-Vine-Tubed.

So to the shore, quietly you must go, with no expectation or urgency. Take a moment to be still and to look. See through your own eyes, set aside your camera, let your spirit be conscious a moment or two, and cast yourself out and away.

Be present, waiting in hope, to return and return. To feel the sea birds cry and wheel above, the tides turning, see the sea race run, taste the air you breathe.

To return to your home, sea air in your lungs, and the lick of salt on your skin. Knowing in your very blood, that you too, are truly alive and a part of the universe.