Isle Martin May 2026
Happy as a clam. Between two shelves of rock. It’s big enough to climb in. And lie. I come in and out. In and out. Which feels safer? The rock is solid. If it fell it would be curtains. And I feel that in my body. Alert signals. From the brain to the stomach. Is there danger.
I carefully pick my way over boulders. Sticking to parts like a barnacle. Still. Shell like.
I want to meet my edges. Like sea meets rock. Sometimes lapping gently. Exploring. Sometimes gurgling with surprise when the wave finds a plug hole in the coast. To get sucked in momentarily. And then spat back out the top.
I feel vulnerable under hanging rock. Like any moment it could splinter away from the earth and completely crush me. Like unexpected death did.
He disappeared.
As if the earth had decided one day to swallow him whole. Leaving me like the clam.
Sometimes open and beautiful. Sparkling with the salt from the sea. And other times shut. A type of shut that physical strength won’t open.
Gentle hands and softness do.
I have a desire for this. Someone who understands the power of soft.
I feel powerful stood. Feet apart. Naked on rock. Looking out to sea like a sailor. Navigating my way to a point I don’t know.
They say that if suffering doesn’t harden you, it will lead you to the furthest shore.
But today I sit. In stillness. In and out of my shell. Feeling my edges.
Because what happens, when the thing that you beat with, breaks?