We started the year by the open Baltic Sea. The wind was strong, the sea was light brown, and the beach was covered in wet pebbles. It resembled a clattering pile of different planets, a gathering of galaxies—impossible to choose which one to take home and put on the shelf at the Sea Library. Until I found my first-ever hag stone: the most magical pebble of them all.

I looked right through it and decided to be honest for the rest of the year. Not to carry around a whole beach of rocks (all the possibilities that I can do), but to sit down and look closely at which pebbles to own, leaving the beauty of the rest by the sea. To live a simpler and more mindful life, again, to dive deep.

Years have passed since the sea and books changed my life. And my life continues to change, to evolve, to peel its old skin like a fat snake and shine anew. But all the time, I keep returning to the compass of my soul: the Sea Library is always in the middle of the storms that come and go. Through the COVID pandemic, through the war in Ukraine, through years of no income, and even now, when I have a day job. An anchor, a breathing sea beast, curled up and guarding the salty stories, a hot heart beating right under the sea.

The Sea Library makes sense when the rest of the world doesn’t.

In the space of numbers, goals, timetables, and achievements, I catch myself gravitating toward the immeasurable and timeless, to the seemingly pointless wanderings around the nearby riverside meadow, seaside forest, and sitting by the sea in wet winter sand. (I have a dog, so I can call them dog walks.) But I’ve cycled and walked around the block long before Nemo, with no step goals activated, just for the beauty of being. My true spirit animal is a kid on holiday, with pockets full of sea glass and pebbles, a dog-eared book in a worn-out backpack, and a dog by my side.

By the sea.

Last year, I deleted my Twitter account. After years of weaving a wonderful waterwriters’ community under my fingertips, it seemed the right moment to quit. Things change, and only the ever-changing sea stays right there, always, but nothing else. I’m also wary of spending my time on other social media; they suck you in and create an illusion of a community while the most miraculous encounters happen in the gaps. I do believe in the magnificent power of the Internet, yet I think the answer isn’t on Instagram. I believe in mailed and e-mailed letters and postcards; I believe in the unexpected that sparks conversations and in the enchanting power of books. There are so many ways to reach out, to say hi, to share a story that has moved you deeply. It’s a time-consuming mistake to spend hours waiting for something at a crowded bus station called Meta, that never arrives.

And it’s an equal madness to dedicate a whole paragraph to the Hamletic dilemma of whether or not to be online all the time. Life happens elsewhere; we all know that. Under my boots when I walk the crunchy carpet of frozen riverside reeds. On the tip of my tongue when I breathe in the salty seaside air. On the page when I sniff a perfect sentence printed on soft paper that makes my body sing. Seeing a new parcel from faraway lands through the loophole of my post box. Licking stamps when sending letters and Sea Library books to readers. Noticing the first tiny green blades of snowdrops under our hazel.

I believe in friendships, in good stories, and the magical ways in which communities are formed. No need for anything artificial to know how intelligent we all are, even the pebbles at the beach, quietly watching how we choose what to leave behind.

Yours,
Anna x