Nothing to Be Done (a poem from the ocean)

I used to worry

I was too intense

or not good enough.

they sometimes got confused

flowing one into the other.

I used to wish I was kinder,

slimmer, nicer

more loving

less judgemental. . .

but how could I be

when I was not that for myself?

until one day

I looked out and

saw the ocean,

or perhaps the ocean saw me.

a vast

constant

perfect ocean.

and then a new thought

emerged,

washing away the old.

a vast

constant

perfect me.

exactly the way I am

exactly the way I am not.

the drop of rain that falls

the wave that rushes in.

I am that,

I am. . .all of it.

and for once

there was nothing

whatsoever

to be done.