Posted on April 2, 2026 by Jenn Zatopek

I ended the retreat in mountains and drove to the coast, finding mothering in infinite skies, and seagulls, and tiny sanderlings who ran in a flock of six along the beach, as I sauntered back to the wooden footbridge at dusk. The ocean gleamed silver-blue in the evening, and sandy beach and dunes unfurled before me in muted wonder. As a baby, I came to Galveston, brought by my parents, both babies themselves in need of healing and relief, and I imagine I flung myself onto the surf, letting those silvery waves bathe me in belonging.

But last night, I stood at the shore’s edge where land and water marry, stuck my sandaled feet in sands melting in the undertow, and noticed the ancient rhythm of breath we all take part in, this our communion and our song, a shared vision of our humanity, if we allow it. Can we open to and trust in our connection to each other and to the land, to the divinity in our midst? You take care of what you love, what you choose to pay attention to.

No special revelations arose as I disappeared into glowing pink and blue horizons merging while the half-moon hung in the sky with Jupiter and Venus shimmering above. Only a relaxing of the heart, an inner loosening as I soared like the laughing gulls above me, laughing at my escape, my freedom.

***

The days passed as I entered into a rhythm that was pleasant and pleasing to the mind. I woke early, meditated with my zendo online, wrote for a few hours, saw clients, and hiked the beach afterwards, only a few steps away. On the second day of the trip, a friend remarked how spacious I felt, like the molten sky at dawn. Thrilled and uplifted, I agreed: This trip was doing something to me, rewiring my nervous system on some fundamental level, helping me feel loved by the earth who loves me back. I felt it keenly then, even as I write this now, knowing the cynics may scoff and say otherwise. It also released me into the unknowing future, the uncertainty we are all facing as the world ends, or perhaps the vision of the world we hoped would prevail.

***

The ocean, beach, and its lively inhabitants schooled me on why I am here, what I am meant to do, which is to write. Just be yourself, I heard deep inside as I walked the beach each day and returned to the house to work and write.

Ordering several chapbooks and a collection of modern Jewish poetry, I read a magazine of young Asian American poets, and considered the facts: my stunted childhood and my body, the repository for all my parents’ sins, their deviances, their sick delights. What kind of poetry do you write when your parents were your victimizers, when much of your story is heartbreak? You write both what you know and beyond it too. Compassion is not forgetting what was done to us; it is clear-eyed seeing and loving yourself through. 

***

Every visit to the beach, I let my body guide me on where to go, and like a homing device, I walked resolutely toward the shores, to the open waters. There at the edge, I had no thoughts of the Red Seas parting or the Jewish prophet walking on water, a mirage becoming a man out to sea. I only knew the moment of return, the pain of the past obliterated as I stood in the sea and felt held by marine winds and shrieks of gulls and swirling skies. 

But one night the gulls honked in great distress and I strode down the beach to investigate, and sure enough, I caught sight of local fisherman with three lines standing in the shoals, disturbing the nightly routines of these fine birds. Eyes wide as I gasped at the Zen circle, a cloud enso, in the sky, I remembered pelicans flying overhead from my first night here, how gruff and gray they look, starved perhaps from lack of fish and flying anyway because that is what these ancient beings do. Thirty million years old they are, as old as God, older still, and in need of safe spaces in which to nest and feed. I mourned the loss of habitat for these wondrous creatures, my complicity felt as sand smeared itself on my feet and legs.   

***

Two friendly clients talked me into going swimming, and I listened, traipsing down to the beach after one reminded me there are tiny blue jellyfish to avoid. Don’t worry, she chirped a little too brightly, they are small! I was also a woman on my own on a deserted stretch of coastline, but I was determined. I would enjoy swimming alone anyway because anyway I was not alone. The waves were choppy early evening and gray-lavender clouds and indigo embraced while the gulls and sandpipers roved the shore for food.

Entering the ocean felt like dancing with eternity, and I walked out into the waters as far as I felt comfortable, returning to shore when needed. The birds squawked at me, and I thanked them for noticing, wading out to sea again and again and again as light ebbed out of the sky, until I swam in those playful waves, which I slapped as they tumbled over me, tasting salt water and seafoam and joy in the returning.

One glorious discovery hidden in the ocean was this: Walking directly into the waves made my feet wobble in shifting sands, so I stepped sideways and smiled like the moon, submerging myself into the womb of water and felt stability returning. Whatever comes next, I will face the truth of it sideways, allowing roiling waves at surface and deeper stillness in the bottom of the sea inside where peace, where sweetness lives.

Image / Cloud Enso at dusk, Galveston Beach