August 17, 2021

Dearest Lion’s Mane,

I enjoyed you from afar today. You hovered, your smooth bell open like a summer flower, petals stretching soft and wide into the green water around you.

I saw your underbelly as you rotated slowly just below the surface. From here, in this boat, your tentacles could not reach me. I strained my eyes to see into the green water around you to discover just how far you could send your mighty sting. Your fluffy underbelly a tangle of wavy red ribbons, a bowl of spaghetti.

You were beautiful. I’m sorry for demonizing you. Your mighty sting hurt me once, and I forgot to see and tell of your beauty.

We must look past your sting and see you for what you are—a flower drifting on the currents.

You do not hurry, you do not hate, you do not fear, or envy or judge. You pulse like a giant broken heart, red blood strands trailing behind you like a thousand veins.

I watched you today, studied you, followed you slowly upon my boat. I was careful to not touch your body with my oars. I took your picture. I marveled at your size. I gauged how deep your kind can swim, how close to the surface you can rise.

If I can know you, understand you, see you for what you are, I won’t have to fear you. This water is yours after all.

You still might very well sting me again someday, if I carelessly cross your path. You drifting, me churning as usual. Your swim looks effortless, mine….not so much.

You kept my mind on you today. I watched you and forgot to worry about the world for a moment. You reminded me to return to the present.

You reminded me that all life is fragile and beautiful.

You reminded me to slow down and get quiet. Quiet my thoughts, my racing heart.

Your body pulsed slowly, opening and closing to its own rhythm like a beating heart.

And you were alone out there, or so it seemed.

Do you also prefer to swim alone?

Will the water be able to support your life and mine through the coming tides of time, as the Earth heats up and the water gasps?

Will you survive through the winter or wither and die like a blood red flower of the sea?

What will sustain us both but this shady green sea of life?

And will you make room for me when I return?

You will?

Fantastic. I don’t take up much space. Just a little. And I promise to give you a wide berth.

We will both benefit from plenty of space.