BELONGING

The cottage by the sea was only the beginning. At first, it was solitude I sought, the shedding of suits and schedules, the gentle rhythm of waves to replace the relentless tick of clocks. But dreams, like tides, have a way of pulling wider. What began as an escape for one became a vision for many.

The cottage grew, not with bricks or blueprints, but with lives drawn to it like stars to a constellation. Family first. Generations arriving not as visitors but as returnees, remembering that they had always belonged to this shore. One by one, the pods appeared, small dwellings nestled among the dunes and trees, each with its own private corner, yet all tethered to the heart of the land.

At the center, we built spaces that brought us together: a great lounge glowing with firelight, where stories were traded across the span of years and where the decades of absence were erased; a dining hall with a table so long it seemed to echo into forever, creaking under the weight of bread, braai, and laughter. There was a braai pit where flames cracked and popped, sparks chasing the stars as grandkids and grandparents leaned in close. A library heavy with books annotated by different hands, layered with the wisdom of decades, and shared in circles.

The air itself seemed to shimmer with purpose. Here, everyone gave what they could, not as obligation but as offering. Doctors tended gently to both infants and elders; teachers taught not only in classrooms but under trees, on porches, in gardens. Architects shaped new pods that rose like branches from the living trunk of the community. IT professionals stitched us into the wider web, while creatives spun our lives into tales and music and murals. Yogis guided our breath, chefs stirred pots that carried the scent of spice and home, and trainers turned sweat into joy. Every skill found its place, and no hand was ever wasted.

And it was sustainable, as though the land itself conspired with us. Solar panels drank from the sun; tanks filled with rainwater sweet as blessing; gardens spilled over with greens and fruits, each season teaching us patience and plenty.

Children raced barefoot across the sand, growing up never needing to ask, "where do I belong?" for belonging was stitched into the soil. Elders sat in the evening light, not fading here, but weaving their legacy with their stories. Nothing and no one was cast aside.

Beyond our cliffside haven, other communities bloomed, each one with its own manifesto. We traded not merely goods, but wisdom, celebrations, and songs. Pathways stretched between us instead of fences. The world, suddenly, felt less fractured, more like a tapestry of shared breath and beating hearts.

And still, every evening, the sea sang.

It lapped at the shore as the sun bowed its golden head, blessing another day not in service of profit, but of the soul. We gathered to watch, barefoot, unhurried, together, and in the hush that followed the horison’s swallow of light, there was only gratitude as we sat down in prayer on powder soft sand.

At night, you slipped once more into the cottage, into his waiting arms. The children’s laughter still echoing faintly, the scent of woodsmoke lingering on your skin, the taste of salt on your lips. And as you lay wrapped against his heartbeat, you thought…not with surprise, but with certainty… this is what it was always meant to be, a life where alarm clocks never dared to exist.