As a wee little thing I had this strange habit of believing that I was the maestro of everything. The beach was my backstage, the ocean, my muse. I would stand on the tallest rock and precede to gentle that whishy washy salt water into symphonic glory. I would gesticulate wildly so that ocean knew I meant business. That water would be tamed! Tamed and then molded into a performance fit only for a king. When I grew bored of that I would throw a rope around the moon and make it walk around with me. I held sway of all things tidal and ethereal.
My fantasy world was like Narnia, A Wrinkle in Time, and the Little Prince, combined. I would write elaborate plays and act all of the parts, simultaneously. I thought I was a genius. A more trained eye would probably have diagnosed schizophrenia.
Now that I am grown, I know that the ocean answers to no one and the moon is beyond tether. But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that the sea still shows me respect and the moon follows me everywhere I go.