There are flocks of hundreds of birds taking flight as I drive down the highway to the beach. The clouds, clustered on the horizon, thick and hiding the sun, are purple, painting the sky pink around their edges.

There’s only one other person on the beach when I arrive. The sand is smooth and unmarked as I make my journey closer to the tides. My footprints leave marks in the sand, indicators that I am here. I exist.

I take off my shoes. I always think of that family trip to Myrtle Beach we took to spread Uncle Leroy’s ashes. Abu was talking about grounding, a recommendation from one of the brothers in Greensboro, and we took our shoes off to bury our toes in cold October sand.

The sand is cold again today—icy to the touch. I bury my toes deeper.

I’ve been running hot lately. As I heal childhood wounds and release old survival tactics that no longer serve me, a lot of unprocessed rage and anger and hurt come up. It burns my chest, feels like acid in my stomach. It’s harder to breathe lately.

The rhythmic waves teach me to breathe. Icy feet in cold sand temper the rage. I acknowledge it, but the beach keeps me from burning everything to the ground from the inside out.

I learn to slow down here. To witness and be part of nature. How can I not, with the sun gleaming over the horizon, its rays making jewels of the water?

The horizon stretches on forever here.

Possibilities are limitless.

Now, like often, I think of Rumi.

“How will you know the difficulties of being human, if you are always flying off to blue perfection? Where will you plant your grief seeds?”

I bury them here—in the sand, the waves, the ocean breeze. I rest them here, so it can be carried off to new horizons, acknowledged but not trapped. So it can transform into something that won’t burn the world to the ground.

So something new can blossom.

—Ameen

11.6.25