Sea

Recently, I’ve been walking into the sea and thanking it for all that it has given to me. I don’t just thank the sea, of course – I thank the sand too, and the clouds in the sky, the sun and the stars, the rocks and hills and trees, and always that steady wind –

But the sea precedes them all. Like the Leviathan it harbors, it is the first created, the form against which all else is defined. Blessed are we who gaze upon the sea, and remember how to forget.

Blessed, too, are we upon whom the sun shines. Had I forgotten that rain always gives way to sun, I might’ve been afraid – at least, more than I was.

But I clung to that faith. Nothing happens twice, and the sun always returns to an altered land. Yet I am grateful to speak with the same sea.

Sometimes I awaken from the page, afraid. The day will come when I know every word, but not what to say. I want to be like the sea, and speak not to be understood, but to speak.

As much as I admire the wisdom of the stars, sometimes I can’t help myself, and I draw the sea in close and whisper:

“I fear the earth you’ve watched unfold will be swallowed, like a fig. It has grown too burdened by its past. The wheel must turn again, and the next age be born.”

But then I remember –

the sea has witnessed countless cycles drowned long ago. Surely it will neither mourn, nor rejoice. Our time is like one of its many waves, which only come and go because to do so is their way.

So I see there’s no need to fill you in, dear sea – already you know that the time of flood has come again, that our stifled future cries for rebirth.

And just as Noah’s first act upon touching land was to drink, so too shall be ours when the waters recede: rejoice.

Try as I might, I forget what I should remember and remember what I must forget. My selves are scattered like sunlight on the water.

I will arrive empty-handed, I hope. Unencumbered. How can you give if you cannot receive? Who can you forgive if not first yourself?

Yet therein lies my grave disquiet — we will be forgiven by the plants, one day, but never by ourselves.

The storm grows and the daylight wanes. The great wave soon shall come to fell the shaking tower.

My comfort comes from knowing that when at last the season turns, I will return to the sea, and forget these useless fears…

Rituals

The clock chimes a handful of times as its hands, for a moment, stand still. The chorus of birds takes a bow and a pause, and the leaves suspend their shivers. I myself have scurried about but sense that it’s time to be still.

Just on cue, the last shred of sun crosses the plane and the radiant clouds grow dim. Even the crash of the old sea’s waves seems quiet, out of respect. The whole world lies caught within the fleeting gap between the daylight and the dusk.

This is just the moment, I think to myself. Before everything gets going again, I slip my thumb and strike the match. Fire, old as time, grabs the wick and the candle bursts with light, contiguous with the sun, inheritor of the fallen day.

Time will restart at any moment. One of my shadows sits down by the window to await the coming night. Another breathes the steam rising from my evening tea. A third arranges the reaching flowers who seek in vain the light.

The cork is popped and the caraf filled. A scrape of stone and warping wood as the paint-peeled chair slides out into place. Almost late, the breeze drops in to lend the feast its voice.

All day did I await the alignment of stars to cohere my woeful fragments. Their syzygy provides the hope which feeds the frantic fool. It is not the components, but rather their conjunction, which animates the magic stashed between my empty palms.

The finishing touch graces the oaken table – that dearest loaf of bread. I can sense the breath of life returning to our wretched earth, escaping from the heavens. As always, I finish just in time after fearing I wouldn’t make it.

Time returns. The sun begins its nightly rest. The birds resume their ancient song. The wave itself comes crashing against the rocky shore.

The precarity of the mortal pieces does not betray the whole. Perhaps tomorrow the match will not catch, the petals will droop, the wine will sour and the sacred spell will break.

But today the composition stands, arranged by my hands and enchanted by my eyes. I nearly weep, like every night, but remember to thank my gathered guests. Time cannot unwind, but on occasion, it can slow. Feeling the weight of my leaden arms as I raise them up above, I commune with forces best unknown as I break my daily bread.