Sea Library

Dear friend,

This magical spring has arrived in wonderful waves — birdsong, blossoms, rain and sun, warm days and cold nights, and a different kind of work — of quietly listening and observing.

By the river near my home, the reed warbler sings from deep within the grasses, climbing the stems of old reeds with its tiny feet. The cuckoo echoes from the trees. I hear the nightingale at dusk through my open window, the corncrake hidden in the meadows, and a hoopoe couple has settled nearby — prince and princess of a glam rock band. A bright blue kingfisher glints by the canal, quiet and fast, like a blue blink. Beavers swim at twilight — mating, building — and a fox has made her den near the bend in the river. At home, a hedgehog rustles beneath my roses. All of it is part of this spring’s song — an ancient one whose words we’ve always known.

And the Sea Library listens too.

This spring, I began something beautiful — an invitation to write a letter for the sea. A space for others to speak to the sea. It’s not just a project, but a conversation carried on paper across distances and across the seas. I dream of envelopes bearing foreign stamps and faraway postmarks — and the joy of reading your letter, wherever it comes from.

I’ve also returned to weaving bookmarks. My eldest son, Kristians, now 15, filmed a short video of my Sailor’s Bookmark at the beach — a fun Sunday morning together, cycling home with a frozen pizza box strapped to the luggage carrier. Feeding teenagers comes with its own menu.

I’m so happy to be back at my handmade loom — crafted by my husband, who fixes bicycles and loves working with wood in his shed — with a basket of yarns beside me, imagining the colors of each new bookmark. And with every Sailor’s Bookmark sold, I’ll add a new sea book for children to the collection. There’s a quiet kind of magic in this exchange — something small and handmade setting something else in motion. Thank you for being part of it.

I’ve been weaving, uploading, planning, and reading in preparation for new interviews and letters. Slowly, I’ve been tending the roots of what the Sea Library is becoming: quieter, deeper, and more connected.

And just like the Library, my garden began by patient observing and moving according to intuition.

It wasn’t a blank canvas, but something found beneath. We’ve lived on this dune peninsula for a decade now, but I — a city girl — didn’t have the courage to start a garden. In the backyard, there was an old firepit, long overgrown, hidden under weeds and wild roots. Last spring, I cleared it with the help of Niklāvs, my youngest, now 10, revealing its circle — not to restore the fire, but to plant something beautiful. Now, in that very place where flames once danced, seven peonies grow — rising from ashes.

After rain, old rusted nails and screws appear from the earth, along with shards of burned glass and charred bits of wood — remnants of years when each spring and autumn, the firepit was lit and garden debris was burned. Season after season, things were gathered and set aflame, then slowly buried by time. Now, the rain reveals the leftovers, one by one, and I gently remove them as I weed around the flowers.

By the fence nearby, I planted seven climbing roses last spring. And this May, just a few days ago, I added seven hydrangeas — white and dark red, like the colours of our wooden house. It’s a secret garden: invisible from my windows, hidden from passerby. Tucked away in the far corner, wrapped in the leafy arms of old berry bushes. 777 — my little garden gamble. A pocket of earth. My casino of peonies, roses and hydrangeas. I’m feeling lucky.

The Sea Library is no longer just a room with walls — it’s a conversation. It lives in the post, in a bookmark, in a story found at the right moment. In a reader I may never meet — or may have already met. In a writer who has become a friend. But it’s also still this room — now a secret one — growing quietly, like a coral reef.

Last night, with the boys by the sea, where we cycled before sunset, I found a yellow plastic dish, bright as the sun. I washed it in the sea, tucked it into my bag, and carried it home to stick to the Sea Library wall — a little plastic sun. Tender with trash.

This is not about visibility, but about presence.
Not performance, but connection.
Not reach, but resonance. A pebble thrown into water.

An Instagram account deleted, a personal letter written.

And now, as June 4 draws near, I feel the rhythm of seven years lived with it beside the sea — seven years of books, letters, gifts, of ink, salt and sand. The Sea Library is still here, changing and growing like a hidden garden.

So I send this letter in hope it reaches you, wherever you are in your own season of becoming.

Anna
Sea Librarian
beachbooksblog@gmail.com