The Coconut Muse

Tag: love

  • The Beach Taught Me to Heal

    The Beach Taught Me to Heal

    There are moments in life when words become more than just expression, they become a kind of medicine. This piece is deeply personal to me, born from quiet hours spent at the edge of the ocean, where I found pieces of myself I didn’t know were lost. Healing is rarely linear, and even more rarely loud. Sometimes, it’s a whisper in the wind, or the way the tide gently returns to the shore without asking anything in return.

    Sharing stories like this is both a release and an offering. We speak not only to be heard, but to remind one another that we are not alone in our quiet battles. There’s beauty in vulnerability, in letting the world see the soft spaces we often hide. My hope is that in these words, you find something that resonates with your own journey. Because when we share, we heal a little more… together.

    There is something ancient in the way the waves meet the shore,
    a rhythm older than sorrow, older than joy.
    I came to the beach not to be found, but to dissolve.
    I thought the sea would wash me away,
    but instead, it taught me how to stay.

    The tide, ever-moving, whispered to my wounds:
    “Nothing is permanent, not pain, not even you.”
    It taught me that grief is like water, it shifts, it returns,
    it crashes and recedes, but it never stays still.
    And in that motion, there is a mercy.

    The salt in the air stung my skin like truth,
    but also carried something clean, an unspoken promise
    that what stings can also purify.
    I watched as broken shells were shaped
    into softer versions of themselves,
    not by force, but by patience.
    That’s how the sea heals: not by erasing the cracks,
    but by honoring them, letting the water smooth their edges.

    I sat with the silence between the waves
    and learned to breathe again.
    Not deeply. Not steadily. But enough.
    Enough to begin.

    The sun did not ask me to smile.
    The wind did not ask me to explain.
    The horizon simply held my gaze
    and reminded me that there is always more,
    more sky, more sea, more time.

    And when I finally stood,
    my footprints trailed behind me like a soft goodbye.
    The tide, faithful and unbothered,
    reached out to erase even those.
    “Begin again,” it seemed to say.
    And I did.
    And I do.

    🌊 When the Ocean Became My Medicine

    It was a quiet morning on Siesta Key, the kind where the tide whispers more than it roars. I remember stepping onto the cool sand, clutching an ache I couldn’t name. Life had unraveled in slow, painful threads, the end of a relationship, the weight of burnout, the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone can’t mend.

    I didn’t come to the ocean to heal. I came because I didn’t know where else to go. But the sea, as always, had its own quiet intentions.

    🐚 Listening to the Silence Between the Waves

    The first few days, I simply sat. No journaling. No thinking. Just breathing.

    The ocean taught me stillness before it taught me anything else. It showed me how to be quiet, not out of defeat, but out of surrender. In the rhythm of the waves, I found something ancient and trustworthy. Rise. Fall. Return. Again and again.

    Grief, too, is a tide. It comes and goes. Some days it crashes. Other days it retreats gently. But it always moves.

    🌅 The Shoreline as a Mirror

    I began walking each morning at sunrise. I noticed the birds fishing for their breakfast, the salt crusting along the rocks, the way the sand cooled where the waves pulled back.

    One morning, I picked up a whelk shell with a crack down its side. I almost tossed it back, until I realized how much of myself it reflected. Not perfect, not whole, but still beautiful. Still here.

    Healing wasn’t a bolt of lightning. It was slow recognition. The realization that I didn’t have to be untouched to be worthy. That softness wasn’t weakness. That I could let life shape me without letting it ruin me.

    🌺 Lessons the Sea Whispered

    The beach didn’t “fix” me. But it gave me space to remember who I was before the pain, and helped me reshape who I wanted to become after it.

    Here are a few truths the ocean offered me:

    • Stillness is not laziness. It’s where clarity grows.
    • The body knows what the heart tries to hide. Let your body lead you back.
    • You don’t need to rush the healing. The waves will wait for you.

    💫 Healing, One Tide at a Time

    I now return to the beach often, not just when I’m broken, but when I want to remember my own resilience. It’s become a sacred space, a quiet temple, a living metaphor.

    If you’re in a season of loss or fatigue, maybe the ocean (or any piece of nature that calls you) can offer the same. Not a cure, but a balm.

    ✨ Your Turn: What Places Help You Heal?

    Have you found comfort in nature, too? Is there a space or ritual that reminds you of your strength? Share it in the comments below, I’d love to hear your story. 🌿

    📌 Bonus: Try This

    Healing Beach Ritual (5 minutes):

    1. Walk barefoot on sand or grass.
    2. Inhale deeply and say: “I am safe to slow down.”
    3. Exhale and release something you’ve been holding.
    4. Pick up a small shell, stone, or leaf to carry home as a reminder that healing is happening, even if you can’t see it yet.

  • Where Heaven Meets the Shore

    Where Heaven Meets the Shore

    I went down to the edge of the sea,
    where the world hushes and the sky kneels low
    not seeking answers, only stillness.
    But there, amid the rhythm of the waves,
    I found a voice too ancient to name.

    Each wave spoke in psalms,
    not of thunder, but of grace
    rolling forward with the patience of eternity,
    retreating like a whispered prayer
    too sacred to stay upon the tongue.

    The ocean did not preach.
    It pulsed with divinity.
    In its vast, breathing expanse,
    I felt the sigh of a presence
    that needed no altar, only awe.

    And the sand
    O, the sand
    a billion tiny miracles beneath my feet,
    each grain a story sculpted by time,
    each a universe cradled in silence.
    Not forgotten, but known.

    There, where seafoam kisses skin
    and salt baptizes the soul,
    I saw no burning bush, no thunderclap,
    only the gentle insistence
    that God is not far, but folded
    into the folds of tide and shell,
    present in the shimmer,
    and the hush.

    To find the holy,
    one need not look up,
    but down
    to the gleam of a single shell,
    to the hush between the waves,
    to the miracle in every grain of sand.

  • With Your Own Eyes

    With Your Own Eyes

    There comes a time, quiet, slow…
    when the noise of the world no longer stirs you,
    when the chase loses its thrill,
    and you begin to wonder
    what it really means
    to be alive.

    Not to exist.
    Not to survive.
    But to live.
    Fully.
    Fiercely.
    With wonder burning behind your eyes.

    Because peace…
    real peace
    isn’t handed down like a gift.
    It’s carved,
    soul-first,
    from chaos.
    From heartbreak and stillness,
    from standing in the middle of life’s storm
    and choosing to plant your feet anyway.

    You will not find it in the noise,
    nor in the glitter of what others call success.
    Peace is not a destination
    it is a reclamation.
    It is the moment you stop asking the world
    who you should be
    and start remembering
    who you already are.

    To see the beauty of this world
    is to choose to see it
    with your own eyes.
    Not through the lens of fear,
    not from behind the filters of doubt,
    but raw and awake.
    The sunrise doesn’t care if you’re ready.
    It rises anyway, bold, magnificent.
    So must you.

    Go climb the mountain.
    Not to conquer it,
    but to let it whisper its ancient truths into your bones.
    Let the ocean remind you
    that surrender can still be strength.
    Breathe in the scent of rain on warm earth.
    Let stars make you feel small
    so you remember how vast your soul can be.

    You were not born to rush,
    to break,
    to bury your light beneath routine.
    You were born to witness.
    To love.
    To feel.
    To heal.
    To stand still long enough
    that the world can speak to you again.

    And when it does
    when your heart is quiet enough to hear it
    you will know:
    peace was never far.
    It lived within you,
    waiting for the moment
    you opened your eyes
    and chose to truly see.

  • The First Time I Saw the Ocean

    The First Time I Saw the Ocean

    There is a moment when the world shifts, a quiet transformation, when the air itself holds its breath. It is the moment when the horizon, endless and unbroken, first unveils itself, the ocean, vast and boundless, stretching to the very edge of the sky. The first time you see it, you stand as though caught in a dream, unsure whether to blink, whether the world will vanish the moment you close your eyes.

    The wind hits differently here, carrying whispers of salt and stories from across the globe, and the sand feels like nothing you’ve ever known, soft, gritty, like it belongs to someone else’s memory. Every step is a promise you never knew you needed to make, every breath a discovery of air you never thought existed.

    And then, the water. It rolls in slowly, rhythmically, like a quiet conversation from another time, another place. It laps at the shore like an old lover returning after years apart, its waves brushing against your feet, cool and relentless, both calming and daring. There is something in the water that pulls, an invitation, a beckoning. You want to step forward, to surrender to it, but you hesitate, unsure if you’re ready for the vastness of it all. The ocean doesn’t care if you’re ready. It simply exists, vast and undeterred, older than time, yet alive with every wave that crashes against the shore.

    For a moment, you are no longer just you. You are the smallness of a single grain of sand, but also the vastness of the universe. The ocean holds you, humbles you, makes you feel both unimportant and all-important in the same breath. It does not ask you to understand it; it only asks you to witness, to feel, to let its rhythm wash over you.

    In that first moment, the sound of the waves is no longer just noise, it’s a song, a lullaby sung to your heart, a reminder that some things in this world are too beautiful, too immense, to ever be explained. The ocean does not need to justify its existence. It simply is. And in its simple being, it gives you something you never knew you needed, a reminder that sometimes, the greatest beauty in life lies in the things that are too big to be understood, only felt.

  • Sunlight is Good for the Soul

    Sunlight is Good for the Soul

    There is an alchemy in sunlight, sand, and salt water that no laboratory could ever bottle, no poet could fully distill, yet the soul knows it intimately, like a lover’s whisper remembered in dreams. When the sun kisses bare skin, it is more than warmth, it is an invocation, a golden baptism that seeps into marrow and muscle, coaxing tension to melt, shadow to recede. Its light does not merely illuminate, it awakens. It stretches across the body in languid strokes, softening the edges of thought, reminding us we are vessels of warmth, of radiance, of life itself.

    Beneath the feet, the sand welcomes with tender heat, a thousand tiny grains pressing against skin like ancient storytellers murmuring secrets from millennia past. It is soft, yet yielding, comforting yet wild, shifting beneath each step like the delicate play of memory. The sand does not resist, it receives. It sifts through fingers and clings to thighs, tracing the contours of desire, of freedom, of utter, unrepentant presence. To walk upon it is to remember the body’s deep yearning for earth, for grounding, for sensual contact with the pulse of the planet.

    And then, there is the ocean, mysterious and magnetic, her breath salty and seductive, her voice a lullaby woven with thunder and sighs. She pulls at something ancient within us, something primal and unrefined. The salt water cradles the body not as a stranger, but as a mother, buoyant and bracing, alive with memory and mineral. She cleanses in ways unseen: rinsing the skin, yes, but also the spirit. Each wave is a benediction, each plunge a release. She takes your worry, your sorrow, your sharpest edges, and returns you softened, newborn in salt and sun and sensual surrender.

    Together, sunlight, sand, and salt water form a holy trinity of healing,a ritual not practiced, but lived. They do not ask you to be better, only to be bare. To be kissed by heat, held by earth, rocked by tide. They are not cure, but communion. And in their presence, the soul does not simply recover. It rejoices. It glows. It remembers it was never meant to be confined, but to shimmer, to stretch, to sway in the sacred rhythm of the sea.

    Sunlight spills like honeyed breath,
    a golden hush on skin laid bare
    each ray a finger, slow and warm,
    unraveling the weight of care.
    It kisses shoulders, soft and long,
    draws sighs from marrow, deep and low;
    its touch a song the body knows,
    from lifetimes bathed in amber glow.

    The sand receives with open palms,
    a thousand grains in whispered prayer,
    each step a hymn, each shift a vow,
    to ground the heart, to hold it there.
    It clings and slips and wraps around,
    like time itself between the toes,
    reminding us, in hush and hush,
    how deeply rooted freedom grows.

    And salt, the sacred ocean’s breath
    she calls with lips of foaming tide,
    her water cool, her pull immense,
    a pulse that throbs from deep inside.
    She takes the ache, the edge, the lie,
    and gives back salt and skin and truth,
    a baptism in rolling waves,
    a mother’s kiss, a lover’s proof.

    So let me lie where all things meet
    where sun ignites, and sand forgives,
    where saltwater sways the soul to sleep,
    and everything forgotten… lives.