nothing is a mistake

a prose poem on the coast, the body and belonging

nothing is a mistake

warrnambool beach, gunditjmara country

The sand holds heat, it feels like a warm blanket as I snuggle my feet in. It’s protecting me from this icy, southerly wind which feels like it rolled over the smooth, wet curves of a glacier on its way to touch my cheek.

I burrow my hands into the thousands of grains of crushed quartz and limestone. They whisper memories of a time before I ever breathed. Now those memories are touching me.

Maybe everything that is hard can eventually soften, under the right circumstances. Maybe if I lived another thousand years I would be softer than an aster petal. Maybe there would only be softness. Maybe I would melt back into the cosmic nature of things. Nothing to judge, nothing to hate, nothing to grieve.

The sand dunes roll, like they’re mirroring the playful waves they gaze upon each day and they’re protected by coastal heathland. I’m particularly fond of the long, smooth tussock grasses with sharp pointy edges and the more sturdy shrubs that are decorated with magenta blooms.

Upon closer inspection, I notice that the leaves on this herbaceous stem close into little, tiny bowls the higher and newer they are. The leaves hold hands so tightly that they look like tea cups a fairy would drink from.

Within each cup they cradle the freshest new growth that are sprouting like little babies. There’s something tender and comforting about nature protecting its young until they are ready to stand strong against the gusts of wind that come with a life lived. I suddenly feel more aware of my own womb. Perhaps I’m not so alien from the flowers after all.

The hot pink flowers reach out from a delightfully golden disc floret. Its sunshine centre is dotted with dollops of dry pollen. Every part of the plant has grown in spirals, mathematically perfect to dance for the bees and the bugs.

The soft sand holds remnants of its coarse origins when it brushes against my skin, abrasive and cold, making my lips turn the colour of a galah’s belly. Dried seaweed sleeps in the sand. It’s rough and worn. Shrivelled by salt and sun rays.

I look to the blues of the water. The way white, frothy wave caps stretch back all the way into the deep navy. I observe the long tussock grasses, the bright flower petals, the curled leaves and the sand where the sun buries warmth like treasure to find on the windiest days.

I realise that everything has its place. Nothing is a mistake. It would be an insult to Earth herself, to ever declare that I don’t belong.