Riding the Waves — learning rhythm with seaweed

Seaweed doesn’t resist the tide. It bends, sways, floats in place — sometimes moving wildly, sometimes not at all. It’s not rushing to grow, but following the rhythms of the water around it. And somehow, despite its softness, it endures.

In my own life and creative practice, I have often wished to move like that — with the sea, with the flow of life, not against it. But more often, I have felt pulled under by urgency, by the need to keep up, to respond, to produce. When I try to push ahead, the resistance grows stronger. It can sometimes feel as if I am drowning or swimming up against the tides.

Slowness is not stagnation. It is its own kind of rhythm — one our culture has forgotten how to hear. It takes practice to find it again. Nature models it constantly: seaweed, wind, the pulse of a wave or a heartbeat. Each with its own tempo, each returning to our own innate rhythms.

In seaweed, I’ve found portals into that slowness, not as escape, but as invitation. When I am with seaweed , I’m not just interacting with a plant — I’m learning something ancient. The way it curls, coils, stretches toward light, lets go. The way it belongs.

There is no urgency in seaweed. And yet, it grows. It nourishes. It offers itself as food, medicine, material. We don’t need to hurry to be meaningful. We can let our work emerge from the rhythms of rest, ebb, and flow.

Try this: take ten minutes and move like seaweed. Close your eyes, and let your body sway. Notice what it’s like to follow sensation instead of instruction. Let your movements slow and spiral. This is the beginning of reattuning to your own internal tide.

We don’t need to master the waves. Just learn to float with them. Like seaweed, we can stretch without strain, move without force, and root ourselves in rhythm instead of rigidity. We can remember how to listen — to the tide, to our breath, and the quiet pull of what matters most.