As a physics nerd, I used to watch the wave pools.   It was so beautiful to see the waves intersecting creating patterns, ripples meeting ripples.

One beach we used to go to, north of Boston, had these long shallows, and as you would walk across them, you could feel the sand molded into ripples.  You could see them under the water, tall and firm, just like the simple ripples from a wave pool.

It wasn’t until later that I saw geological formations where that sand at the bottom of a sea had not just be formed into ripples, it had been frozen that way, tiny rocks shaped by the movement of water, turned again into rock that shows the shape of waves vanished millions of years ago.

Now I look at people, and as alive and vibrant and in the moment as they are, I see the shadows of those waves that formed them so long ago, now turned to rock.

The nature of the particles that form us may define the shapes we can take, but the shapes are so often made by the regular and rythmic motion of the waves that moved past us, the scrubbing, scuffing and moving we have endured.

We are our waves, and the only way we cannot be our waves is if we have no firmness, no memory, no solidity.

And those patterns can be beautiful.