The ocean, the strand, the interaction between self and sea, between our Being in the world versus our Seeing in the world . . .
Humanity long ago left the realm of an easy oneness with Nature, but a parallel belief held on, at least through the Romantic period: women were naturally still with Her. Nature itself was feminine. Men had lost the link, but not women, and men could retain that link indirectly through women.
Women no doubt view this male construct somewhat differently. Perhaps radically so. Some may find it offensive, sad, silly, amusing, and a host of other things. But it is with us still, in our poetry and art, our music, perhaps our subconscious minds. If Jung is correct, it is a universal archetype we can not escape.
The aroma of salt-crusted roses, of mother-of-pearl, of adventure, shared its romance unwillingly with one who is no part of it.
YOU KNOW THEM AS WELL AS I DO
I never was a woman who could fling a hank of lustrous hair over her right shoulder to punctuate declarative sentences, or one who appears fragile and small when crying.
Those glossy women have the edge in life, while the rest of us struggle against the odds, groping for words to fling, words that seldom have the texture of silk or the immediacy of a gracefully executed feminine gesture.
And when we cry oh, when we cry, our bodies grow steel-like and huge, our blotched faces contort, and our discordant sobs reverberate even unto three generations.