I'm learning whales once walked.
Millions of years ago,
they carried limbs and lungs across dry earth,
before surrendering to water.
And even now,
with their vast, gliding bodies
in the deep blue silence,
they still remember —
Not in thought,
but in motion.
Their spines rise and fall
in the rhythm of running.
A submerged gallop,
a hidden memory of the land,
pulsing forward through salt and shadow.
They did not forget who they were.
They carried it with them.
They made it fluid.
I hear that, and something in me stirs.
Because I, too, am learning
to gallop beneath the surface.
Once, I moved through life in full stride —
the running, chasing, fleeing.
And now, the terrain has changed.
Now I move through water:
through grief, through awakening,
through the weight of memory and the buoyancy of love.
But my gallop remains.
Not frantic. Not aimless.
Just deeper.
Quieter.
Truer.
Evolving.
It is the motion of becoming.
It is the rhythm of return.
It is the ancient wisdom
of a body that never forgot
how to keep moving forward,
even when everything changed.
And like our mammalian ancestors of the deep,
I gallop still, through the changing tides of time.