To Honor Life

 A Meditation on Honoring Life 

    I got up early, as I often do, ready to begin my week with a peaceful ritual: a walk to the ocean, coffee in hand, and a few minutes of listening to YouTube shorts filled with uplifting thoughts and positive affirmations. But as I went to grab my phone and AirPods, I realized they hadn’t charged overnight. So for the first time in a long while, I decided to leave the house without any technology at all.

   The full moon had been heavy in the sky, and like it often does, it had stirred something inside me. I walked out the door slightly grumpy and could feel the emotional residue clinging to my thoughts. As I walked toward the beach, I found myself replaying the past week’s work and internally criticizing a business partner. I caught myself mid-thought, and recognized how out of sync that negative energy was with my intention for the morning. So I let it go.

    I reached the beach just before sunrise. There was no spectacular show of color in the sky today, just a thick stretch of clouds with slivers of golden light breaking through. What caught my attention, though, was the water. It was glass-flat, like a lake. It was one of those rare mornings where the sea looked like a mirror, holding the sky.  

   Drawn in by the serenity, I walked to the edge of the water, I immediately regretted not bringing my camera or even my phone but figured the least I could do was jump into the ocean.  I took off my shirt and glasses, tied my key into the pocket of my Quicksilver, and slipped into the sea. 

   I  swam out about 300 feet, further than usual. Alone in the ocean, thoughts come and go. Some are beautiful. Some are unsettling. I even thought of sharks how strange it is to drift so vulnerably in a vast body of water. But the sea held me gently, and soon those thoughts passed. When I finally swam back to shore, I wasn’t ready to leave. Instead of walking on the sand as I usually do, I stepped back into the water. It was so calm and clear that I walked waist-deep along the shoreline, quietly watching the ripples in the sand shift beneath my feet.

   Then, just a few feet ahead of me, something caught my eye. A large grey shape moved towards me, a manta ray, I thought. But as it came closer, I saw that it was a nurse shark. It was maybe about five feet,  graceful,  curious and glided right in front of me. It was not hurried or startled. Just… present. I didn’t flinch or feel fear. I simply watched it with awe.  The moment passed quietly, and the shark swam away.

   I kept walking in the water until I reached South Point Pier,  where the rocks meet the sea. As I stood there, small schools of fish began to appear at first a few, then dozens, and then what felt like hundreds. They circled me gently. I stood perfectly still. They came closer and closer, brushing against my legs, my arms, even my torso. Some nipped at my skin like little kisses. Others snuggled up around my body as if they were trying to embrace me. For what felt like an eternity but was probably like twenty minutes, I was surrounded by life soft, loving, innocent. As the fish circled around me, brushing against my legs, arms, and chest, I felt their presence not just as wild creatures, but as companions. They weren’t just curious—they were gentle. Tender. It felt as if they were offering love, comfort, and trust.

   And in that sacred exchange, something shifted inside me. I realized this wasn’t a one-way moment of receiving. It was mutual. As much as I felt held by them, they seemed to feel safe with me. My stillness, my attention, my presence,  it all mattered. I wasn’t just a visitor in their world. I was a part of it. That’s when a deep and unexpected sense of responsibility washed over me.

   These fish weren’t just showing affection. They were reminding me of something essential: that we, as humans, are not above nature, we are its guardians. We belong to it, and it belongs to us. And in that belonging comes a sacred duty. Not to dominate, but to protect. Not to take without giving back. But to care for all living things, just as they sometimes care for us. Their trust was a gift. But it was also a calling. To watch over them. To be gentle with their waters. To honor the life that pulses quietly beneath the surface of things. In that moment, I felt what it means to be human in its highest form, not just a receiver of beauty, but a steward of it.

And then, just like that, they were gone.