Working With the Tides.

Dear you,

There is a reason I keep returning to the water.

The sea has a way of stripping things down. It does not care who you are supposed to be, what you have accomplished, what you are carrying, or how neatly you have arranged your life. It comes in. It pulls back. It changes the shoreline. It leaves behind what was hidden and takes away what was loose enough to go.

I think that is why working with the tides feels so sacred to me. The tide is not only water moving. It is a rhythm. A reminder. A teacher in motion.

There are times to call things in, and there are times to let them leave.

There are times to gather, and there are times to release.

There are times to stand at the edge and ask for more, and there are times to stand there empty-handed and say, take this from me.

The sea understands both.

When the tide is coming in, I think of invitation. Of drawing something closer. Strength. Clarity. Protection. Abundance. Courage. A new beginning. Sometimes I will stand where the water can reach my feet and speak quietly into the wind. Not because I believe I am commanding the ocean, but because the movement of the water helps me give shape to my intention. The tide is already coming toward me. I simply choose what I am willing to receive with it.

When the tide is going out, I think of release. Old anger. Fear. Grief that has overstayed its season. A habit I no longer want to feed. A story I am tired of telling myself. There is something deeply honest about watching the water retreat and allowing yourself to imagine that something inside you is leaving with it. You do not need to throw anything into the sea. You do not need a complicated ritual. Sometimes all you need is a sentence spoken softly as the water pulls away.

You can go now.

There are nights when that is enough.

And then there are the in-between tides. Those strange hours when the water seems to pause before changing direction. I love those too. They remind me that not every moment is meant for action. Sometimes we are simply between one thing and another. Not who we were. Not yet who we are becoming. There is wisdom in that stillness, even when it feels uncomfortable.

You do not always have to push.

You do not always have to decide.

Sometimes the tide itself is waiting.

I think we forget how much of life moves this way. We expect ourselves to stay at one level all the time. To be productive, certain, motivated, open, energetic, healed. But nature has never asked that of us. The sea does not remain full tide forever. It recedes. It gathers itself somewhere beyond what we can see. Then it returns.

Maybe you are allowed to do the same.

Working with the tides can be as simple as noticing them. Learn when high tide comes. Learn when the water is pulling back. Stand near the shore and watch the difference. Notice how the beach changes. Notice what appears after the water leaves. Notice what is covered when it returns.

You begin to see that the coastline is never actually still.

Neither are you.

There are also times when I gather water from the sea. I do it slowly and with intention. I choose the moment. Sometimes the tide matters. Sometimes the moon matters. Sometimes the day itself carries meaning. I take only what I need. I bring it home carefully. And when I use it later, I remember where it came from…the wind, the weather, the sound of the surf, the exact season of my life when I stood there.

That memory becomes part of the water for me.

Maybe that is what makes something sacred. Not that it is rare or difficult to obtain, but that we remember where it came from and what it meant when we received it.

If you decide to begin working with the tides, do not worry about doing it perfectly. Start by paying attention. Look up the tide times. Go to the water when you can. Notice whether it is arriving or leaving. Ask yourself what that movement mirrors inside you.

If the tide is rising, you might ask:

What am I ready to welcome?

If it is falling:

What am I ready to stop carrying?

And if it is turning:

What am I willing to let change?

That is enough for a ritual.

You can bring a candle home and light it afterward. You can write something in your journal. You can collect a shell and keep it as a marker of that day. You can wash your hands when you return and imagine closing the work. You can simply stand there and breathe.

The sea does not require performance.

It asks for presence.

And please remember that working with the ocean also means respecting it. The sea can be beautiful and still be powerful. You do not have to wade into rough water or stand somewhere unsafe to make a moment sacred. The tide does not need you to prove anything. Sometimes the most powerful place to stand is well above the waterline, watching it move.

There is humility in that too. I think this is why I keep returning.

Because every time I do, the sea reminds me of something I forget on land.

Nothing stays. Nothing is meant to.

The water comes in. The water goes out.

The shore changes. And somehow, the sea is still the sea.

Maybe you can change and still be yourself too.

Maybe you can release without losing.

Maybe you can receive without clinging.

Maybe you can trust that what leaves creates room for something else to arrive.

So the next time you find yourself near the water, stay a little longer.

Watch the edge.

Listen to the pull.

Ask yourself what season you are in.

And if you do not know the answer yet, that is all right.

The tide will turn again.

With love from the waterline,

The Witch