Waves crashing upon a rocky shore

A picture came to me sometime this night, and it's still with me now: of waves, crashing upon a rocky shore.

Of "those waves, fallen out of heaven onto earth, [..] the tumult of sound and the satisfaction of a thousand miles of ocean, giving up its strength on the sand" (from a poem by David Whyte)

I am in touch with what is a mixture of the mighty destructiveness of this image, the overwhelmingness of the waves and my powerlessness with respect to them; and, on the other hand, the release, the surrender, the out-breath, the void that occurs once the waves pull back again.

I want to be with this void now, just for a while. I feel a desire for it to not be filled, for it to be left alone, for it to remain in being mode, just for a bit. On the other side of that desire is despair - not violent or choking despair, relatively gentle despair, nearly healing, I want to say.

And I want the despair to be able to move through me, in its own time, undisturbed. And once it has done that, only once it has done that, the void will be willing to take in new things again.