Travelogue (Excerpts) – part 3 – Of Love and The Sea

I keep coming back to the water, one way or another, and it is always so much like going home.

Each of these places, I know them so well, and I have been here before, but still I could not point to any place on any map that has yet to be drafted and lined.

It has always been only about love.  It has always been about home.

Across the flats, I watched the sun rise, and the water was orange, aflame, like corrugated glass with the flicker of a sometimes candle in the distance.  I think of the lighthouse, but I am far beyond the reaches of that guiding beam.  As I look, I can no longer tell where the land ends and the sea begins.

I could walk across, if I so chose.

Later …

You came to save me from this land bound frustration.  You came across the flats and the water.  You sang to me, held me, and took me away.  I am grateful, and then too, we always returned to the source, and found ourselves back down by the water, the same water, always, just in different places and between different spits of land.

I looked out along the rocks, out past the breakers to where the channels runs shallow and deep and treacherous to those without a Navigator.  Each underwater passage is familiar, just as I know the contours and caress of each seaweed bed, and the soft and tangled shoals where the mussels live and breed.

But I am still trapped by the land, and I am not seeing with the same eyes as my birthright.

“Look, someone has put spirit stones out along the farthest weirs,” and you smiled.

Even then, I knew that no person’s hands had ever touched those rocks.

It is still comfort enough for me to watch the growing sunlight sparkle low, and pinpoint the spaces in between the craggy contours.  We keep walking, somewhere between the land and the sea.  We keep walking, on the land which is still the sea.

You reach down on the beach and pick up a blue stone.  “Do the same,” you said, and I did.  You tap it gently on the rocks of the jetty, and the stone splits open, into pieces of the whole.  I do the same.

“This is my love for you,” you said, and you wrote the words out, one piece with the other, on to the raw, broken surface of the split stone.  I smile, and do the same, until we both find that we have etched one another out of the rock, through the heat of our emotion.

“Now give it to the sea,” you said.

And I do.

To be continued …

Saints and Lovers

The Golden Whale

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