Blissful Mornings - The Ocean and the Dreamer
The morning air carried the scent of salt and promise. Gentle waves kissed the shore, their rhythm steady, unbroken—like a quiet assurance from the universe that even the most restless tides always find their way home.
Near the water’s edge, Elara sat with a worn journal resting on her lap. Her fingers traced the tattered edges, the pages filled with maps she had drawn from memory, destinations she had never touched but had dreamed of since childhood. Venice, Santorini, the cliffs of Moher—each place a prayer she had carried for decades, each longing a thread woven into the fabric of her soul.
A Memory of the Ocean
Elara had been born to the sea. She grew up where the sky melted into endless blue, where the wind carried stories like whispers from distant shores. Her childhood was shaped by the rhythm of the tides, the vastness of the horizon, and the stories her grandmother told as the waves curled around their small boat at night.
“The world is stitched together by the hands of dreamers,” her grandmother would say, her voice a melody woven with wisdom. “Some carve their dreams into the mountains, shaping castles that kiss the clouds. Others lay stone upon stone, raising basilicas where souls gather in reverence. And some, like us, dream upon the waters, letting the tides carry our longing to distant lands.”
As a child, Elara had traced the waves with her fingers, imagining them as the veins of civilization, carrying the essence of humanity from one shore to another. She pictured Venice rising from the water like a mirage, its gondolas gliding through time. She saw the spires of Gothic cathedrals piercing the heavens, the domes of grand basilicas cradling the prayers of thousands. She dreamed of museums where art held the echoes of history, where sculptures breathed life into stone.
She had never stepped foot on such places, but her grandmother’s stories made them real. She had believed—with unwavering faith—that one day, she too would stand before them, that the culture of humanity would welcome her as one of its own.
The Power of Belief
But time had not been kind to her body. Her limbs, once strong, now ached with every step. Her hands, once eager to sketch, bore the marks of labor and sacrifice. The world had whispered that she should be content, that her days of chasing horizons were long past.
Yet, as she sat by the water, the waves still ebbed and flowed, as they had for centuries. They did not question their purpose. They did not doubt their journey.
She closed her eyes and whispered to the wind:
“If my body cannot go, let my spirit go first. If my feet cannot walk, let my belief take the first step.”
The sound of footsteps approached. A stranger—a young traveler with a sun-kissed face and eyes filled with wonder—stood before her, watching the way she held her journal like a sacred text.
“Are you a writer?” the traveler asked.
Elara smiled. “No, just a dreamer.”
The traveler sat beside her, glancing at the sketches of faraway lands. “Then you’re already halfway there.”
A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “Am I?”
The traveler nodded. “My grandmother always said that belief is the first journey. We walk it before we ever step foot on land.”
Elara looked out at the waves, their endless journey across the sea. Perhaps she had been traveling all along, not with her body, but with her heart. Perhaps dreams were not measured by how far one’s feet could go, but by how deeply one’s soul could believe.
And so, she made a choice.
The next morning, she packed a small bag, tucked her journal under her arm, and with faith as her compass, she took her first real step toward the life she had always envisioned.
Because faith does not yield to time.
Because dreams remain alive as long as we believe in them.
Because the world was waiting, and so was she.
-Bliss Chains Authors
