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  • Writer's pictureSara Popp


Updated: Mar 10, 2020

I'm perched in my car, high above the Pacific, watching a man standing on a rock bigger than he is get pounded by waves bigger than them both. He seems to be teasing the sea, and I want to call down to him that the sea doesn't care if he drowns, but he wouldn't hear me anyway.

Maybe he doesn't know yet that he is insignificant. Maybe he still feels powerful and important, like the rogue wave won't take him, like he could out-swim the undertow. Maybe he forgets how tiny he is because the thoughts in his head feel so big.

Just in front of me, a family of quail is busily munching what quail munch in the new grass and a bunny crouches. Poppies are blooming, and the only thing louder than the sound of the birds is the roll of the waves below. I am no more or less than the quail or the sea spray, as beautiful and perfect and temporary and small. I am soothed by my insignificance and filled with poignant joy at the thought of how tiny I am in the world.

Just one stunning poppy half hidden in the grass by the bluff, I can make your breath catch if you really look. Just one rogue wave, I can carry you away. Or not. There are other small things to notice and I no longer believe the lie of having enough time. It fills me with appreciation, even awe, for the quail family and their busy foraging, for the dark curve of the wave, the distant laugh, the wind on my skin.

Come be tiny with me sometime soon.

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