During my late teenage years and into my twenties, I used to visit the beach every weekend with an artistic group I belonged to. We did it almost with religious devotion—both figuratively and literally. The sun would burn, yes, but we were always there. Some things stayed with me: the constant sound of the ocean, the endless crashing of the waves. The back-and-forth that never stops. The fresh breeze during the day, turning sharp by night. The ocean does not rest.
Sometimes I would go into the sea only as far as I felt I could handle. I didn’t dare go beyond that point. I used to envy those who slipped deeper into the water with a kind of confidence I never quite felt I had. I never learned to surf. I wonder if I should have tried.
What made me feel safe was the memory of my dad taking me into the water as a child. His confidence became mine. It was as if the way he moved among the waves taught me that I too could belong there. To this day, when I enter the sea, I do it with that same respect—but also with that inherited confidence. I let the water rise up to my neck.
It’s intimidating. To feel the current move you however it wants, while you can’t do much about it. But sometimes, surrender is part of the path. Letting yourself be carried can also be a way out.
I once saw a light rain touch the Pacific. A hypnotic moment. Sometimes nature expresses itself with such authenticity it makes me jealous. It doesn’t care about being seen. It simply is.
This week, a friend sent me a snippet of one of my recent texts along with her thoughts in a voice message. In the background, you could hear the sea. Her voice and the waves. It was a gift. A brief flash of memory. And I received it with an open heart.
These have been rainy days in Bucharest. I watched the water fall over the Dâmbovița River (you can call it Damboveetsa), and those images of the Pacific returned. It moved me deeply.
And now that I share this with you, I want to ask you something: Have you ever felt that way? Like me in those waters. With the water up to your neck. Where you can feel fear or confidence—or both at the same time. Where you recognize the risk, but also the possibility of coming out. Maybe you got there willingly. Maybe unwillingly.
Whatever your answer is, I want you to know—I’m listening. And that there is someone who hears you.
Ave Migratoria 