March 13, 2007
You are purity of space; You are Grace, open and expansive, outside of the field
of human interaction. After spending so much time in the mix of relationships,
You, beach, shore, sand and light, provide an expanse within which I may soar.
Perspective is what I seek here; flight so that in my return I carry the wisdom
that will allow me to be the best I can be.
Your waters are sensual today, indigo blue velvet moving in slow motion. You
wear your cape, flowing and long with lace edges, as you embrace your lover, the
shore. Half moon as witness and at the same time golden braids of the sunlight
flow effortlessly along the folds. In this moment one wave rears up in
suspension the moment before return to the one all-encompassing sea. What a
peaceful sound. So gentle, the swishing sound of wave on shore. As though this
sound is the sound of your breath.
Undulating and rhythmical, you move endlessly, wave upon wave. The birds have
arrived! Not just the ever present seagull, but the red-winged blackbird. Your
song is so plaintive and tender, as though you are trying out your voice for
this first time. Calling out with longing and yearning. You trust enough to call
out. A piping plover swoops over head and banks a turn. All put together, it is
an orchestration of such beauty that I nearly cry out. What underlying structure
lies beneath this diversity of form?
Here it is. Another season, another year. The ice is melting, and the promise of
spring is in the air. The ice forms, then transforms. As soon as water forms
crystal, it moves away from that form to another. What it just was is no longer.
I don’t imagine that one form longs for the form that is now past. Not like us.
The mix of longing for past commingles with joy of now, and anticipation of what
is yet to come in us. This thing called Time that sees one beginning and one end
seems to be the nature of the reality that we inhabit. And yet, and yet.
The inlet has just a thin layer of ice in most places. Water flows out in tidal
ritual, some water seen, and some deep below the surface. Slowly you are warming
and melting. Two gulls cry out to each other, and the orchestra picks up again
with the tentative song of the red-winged blackbird. There they are, in the
reeds. One calls, another answers. It is random, yet ordered. Chaos, yet it
makes sense. I feel the connection.