I lived my life in the shelter of the suburbs. My world was row
houses, highways and strip malls and the constant hum of traffic and electric grid. Sometimes I'd look up and it would come back to me: a
memory of a feeling, something pulsing through the veins of power
lines, the thing that gave those neon signs their radiance. It was
always there but mostly forgotten in the day-to-day distraction in which we
lived our lives. We forgot to notice how completely we were cradled by
the slow, patient embrace of nature.
Maybe nothing is
eternal. But set against our quick flight to the flame, the inching up
of a new shoot, the gradual change of dark into dawn, the almost
unnoticed motion of the stars seemed much nearer to timelessness than
anything we could ever know. Whenever I was reminded, I was grateful. It
tied me to something much larger and deeper than anything I found
around me in the everyday. There was some faint glimmer of memory, of
knowledge that I, too, was made of the same stuff, that I knew something
of that same slow pace, that timelessness. Somehow, I sensed, I could
participate in that patient, creative pulse that, given enough time,
could recreate the universe.
Once I could feel its
presence, I was drawn to it, often in the early morning before the world
woke up or late at night, when it finally fell asleep. I could feel it more than hear it, but I thought of it as a
voice that spoke to me directly and called me out by name. It would
say, "Everything you think you know, all you see in your world is
a projection, a shared illusion made real by belief and the
fear of letting go."
Maybe we were all afraid that
if we let ourselves wander out into that wilderness, we'd encounter something we were not made to see. Maybe, we
thought, it was better not to know, better to keep our eyes and our
thoughts focused on the things we made and understood, the things we could control.
And
I was afraid. Whenever I walked outside, there always came a moment when I would see myself taken away. And I would feel a little shiver and wonder, "What if I can't go back? Or what if, when I do, I won't be able
to tell them where I'd been and I will be left so alone with this?"
But
in those early mornings, just before dawn, I would stand still, slowly lower my defense and let it in. And then it began: a pale
light, just the faintest sign that the night was ending. I felt the change before I saw it. A bird called, a breeze swept up a leaf. The last of the stars began to fade like a candle floating on the water, slowly
submerged. And then, just for a moment, everything was new and anything was possible. Dreams mingled with waking life, and my heart opened and expanded,
reaching up into the sky. I felt at peace and connected to all that surrounded
me, to the houses, roads and strip malls, to the constant hum of traffic and electric grid, to that something pulsing through the veins of the power
lines, to the gradual change of dark into dawn, to the motion of the stars, to that patient, creative pulse that, given enough time,
could recreate the universe.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Friday, November 10, 2017
The Holy Moment
Silent night, silent stars
Are those angels in the air
Watching from afar
In this still and silent hour?
All is calm, all is bright
We've been watching through the night
I can feel the light
Slowly growing in the sky
In the holy moment
Just before the dawn
The spirit rises up
With the sun
What it was, I don't know
What drew me from my dreams
Out there in the snow
Singing voices in the trees
Under moon, under cloud
Outside of every door
Born into the world
Something never seen before
In the holy moment
We are not alone
A light has come
To guide us back home
Body weak, spirit strong
As we make our weary way
By the star that guides us on
To the dawning of the day
In the holy moment
We see the morning star
And glimpses of
The wonder we are
Sea Dreams
The ocean gets itself all whipped up
And carried by the wind inland
As a milky white mist
An opalescent incense
Of moisture and mystery
All through the night
They heard it in their homes asleep
The moaning and the meaning
Of the dreaming of the sea
They sank beneath the surface
And dissolved into the mist
In the morning I am watching
All the people on the beach
Moving in slow motion in the distance
From the ocean come the waves
They are lifted and illuminated in the milky light
That emanates from sea dreams
From beyond the veil of mist
And carried by the wind inland
As a milky white mist
An opalescent incense
Of moisture and mystery
All through the night
They heard it in their homes asleep
The moaning and the meaning
Of the dreaming of the sea
They sank beneath the surface
And dissolved into the mist
In the morning I am watching
All the people on the beach
Moving in slow motion in the distance
From the ocean come the waves
They are lifted and illuminated in the milky light
That emanates from sea dreams
From beyond the veil of mist
She Dreams of Christmas
Never grieve the evergreen
We cut up from the earth
To make a moment's magic—
It's roots go deep
In the backyard
Where the little one dreams
And remembers
You gave her wonder in a story
Of a mystery of a star
With a gift of hope and memory
And a dream beneath a tree
She sees it now
In the snow-down
White bird
Soft as Christmas morning
And warm sweets and whispers
Of prayers and singing
In the gathering of family
The seen and the unseen
She feels them
Where she is
As she sleeps
When she dreams
Of Christmas
We cut up from the earth
To make a moment's magic—
It's roots go deep
In the backyard
Where the little one dreams
And remembers
You gave her wonder in a story
Of a mystery of a star
With a gift of hope and memory
And a dream beneath a tree
She sees it now
In the snow-down
White bird
Soft as Christmas morning
And warm sweets and whispers
Of prayers and singing
In the gathering of family
The seen and the unseen
She feels them
Where she is
As she sleeps
When she dreams
Of Christmas
Sweetness Still Found
Today, we returned
To the place you were born
In a little red house
Hidden under the boughs
Down a road
You have to know
To find
On the day you died
The air was so sweet
With the blood of the tree
Rising up from below
In a fall of old snow
Inside was a man
Who kept alive a fire
"The wood is wet
Can't get it hot
And they just won't run
They're all out of sap
When it's time, she turns the tap
And that's it, we're done"
But we drove for miles
And we didn't care
That this season was meager
Compared to last year
Coz the water that bore you
In the snow and the steam
In the air and the earth
It was singing to me
Of the love that renews
And the life that returns
When the water will flow
And the wet wood will burn
And the blood will rise up
Through the roots in the ground
And the man will distill
All the sweetness still found
In the forest I first
Ran my hands
Through your hair
To the place you were born
In a little red house
Hidden under the boughs
Down a road
You have to know
To find
On the day you died
The air was so sweet
With the blood of the tree
Rising up from below
In a fall of old snow
Inside was a man
Who kept alive a fire
"The wood is wet
Can't get it hot
And they just won't run
They're all out of sap
When it's time, she turns the tap
And that's it, we're done"
But we drove for miles
And we didn't care
That this season was meager
Compared to last year
Coz the water that bore you
In the snow and the steam
In the air and the earth
It was singing to me
Of the love that renews
And the life that returns
When the water will flow
And the wet wood will burn
And the blood will rise up
Through the roots in the ground
And the man will distill
All the sweetness still found
In the forest I first
Ran my hands
Through your hair
Two Lights
In a lonely lighthouse
At the land’s end, a lantern was burning
From the fall of the night
To the first fragile light of the morning
He flashed out a warning
To all the travelers of wind and waves
To save them from a wrecking on the rocks
O, the winter was cold
And the hunger would lead them to slaughter
It would come for the old
With the youngest succumbing soon after
So, they went to the water
With fire for the travelers of wind and waves
To draw them to a wrecking on the rocks
Would the hull splinter and split?
Would the throats be stripped and slit?
Would the ship belly be emptied in the blood-dark sea?
In the house, the lamp grew brighter
As the keeper tried to fight their dark deeds
By shining a light for all to see
All the captain could see:
Two lights in the night as it deepened
And he chose from the two
With the cargo and crew in his keeping
The men were all sleeping
So sure, the master of wind and waves
Would keep them from a wrecking on the rocks
At the land’s end, a lantern was burning
From the fall of the night
To the first fragile light of the morning
He flashed out a warning
To all the travelers of wind and waves
To save them from a wrecking on the rocks
O, the winter was cold
And the hunger would lead them to slaughter
It would come for the old
With the youngest succumbing soon after
So, they went to the water
With fire for the travelers of wind and waves
To draw them to a wrecking on the rocks
Would the hull splinter and split?
Would the throats be stripped and slit?
Would the ship belly be emptied in the blood-dark sea?
In the house, the lamp grew brighter
As the keeper tried to fight their dark deeds
By shining a light for all to see
All the captain could see:
Two lights in the night as it deepened
And he chose from the two
With the cargo and crew in his keeping
The men were all sleeping
So sure, the master of wind and waves
Would keep them from a wrecking on the rocks
The Flood Inside
The seekers and the lovers
Are the first ones to discover
They throw themselves completely in the deep
While all the others follow
Or shiver in shadows
The seekers and the lovers
See beneath
They say, give yourself over
To the flood inside
And never, never hide again
O, my soul, I see you
In the distance on the water
The wind and waves are breaking my heart
They say, give yourself over
To the flood inside
And never, never hide again
So many miles
Between me and home
I walked alone
Through so many nights
So lonely and so lost
But now, I can remember
The moment I surrendered
And gave myself completely to the sea
O, give yourself over
To the flood inside
And never, never hide again
Are the first ones to discover
They throw themselves completely in the deep
While all the others follow
Or shiver in shadows
The seekers and the lovers
See beneath
They say, give yourself over
To the flood inside
And never, never hide again
O, my soul, I see you
In the distance on the water
The wind and waves are breaking my heart
They say, give yourself over
To the flood inside
And never, never hide again
So many miles
Between me and home
I walked alone
Through so many nights
So lonely and so lost
But now, I can remember
The moment I surrendered
And gave myself completely to the sea
O, give yourself over
To the flood inside
And never, never hide again
Firefly
One night, I set off after the firefly
Night-light, glittering light in my eyes
Led like I was flying where the fly had flown
This was light like nothing that I’d ever known
It was too much to keep my eyes open wide
I was blinded by the light
Drawn from my house and home
Into the woods alone
I couldn’t see there
Though I was bathed in light
I couldn’t be there
But there in the night was I
A child chasing seemingly harmless lights
When I was burned by the firefly
Seven years in Elvin land
In service to the Elvin Queen
In hell in heaven, those seven years
Seemed like an eternity
Set free, I set off after a memory
Strange now, even to my family
It changed me, no one I knew recognized me
This was life like nothing that it used to be
It was too much to be alone with the ones I love
So, I set off on my own
Out of my house and home
Into the world alone
But I couldn’t be there
Although I was free at last
I wasn’t free there
I never outran the past
That magical night
Those tragical lights
Stole away sight
And left visions instead
On unquiet nights
Awake in my bed
Her face and that light
Running round in my head
I’m haunted by inescapable dread
A vision too painful to remember
Too precious ever to forget
Night-light, glittering light in my eyes
Led like I was flying where the fly had flown
This was light like nothing that I’d ever known
It was too much to keep my eyes open wide
I was blinded by the light
Drawn from my house and home
Into the woods alone
I couldn’t see there
Though I was bathed in light
I couldn’t be there
But there in the night was I
A child chasing seemingly harmless lights
When I was burned by the firefly
Seven years in Elvin land
In service to the Elvin Queen
In hell in heaven, those seven years
Seemed like an eternity
Set free, I set off after a memory
Strange now, even to my family
It changed me, no one I knew recognized me
This was life like nothing that it used to be
It was too much to be alone with the ones I love
So, I set off on my own
Out of my house and home
Into the world alone
But I couldn’t be there
Although I was free at last
I wasn’t free there
I never outran the past
That magical night
Those tragical lights
Stole away sight
And left visions instead
On unquiet nights
Awake in my bed
Her face and that light
Running round in my head
I’m haunted by inescapable dread
A vision too painful to remember
Too precious ever to forget
After Winter
So this late night brings a spring rain
And it brings me back, brings me back…
It brings me back to the beginning
Back to the early morning
And in the drip of the drops
In the splashes and splatters
I hear…
The promise of a sprouting seed
The hope of a return to earth
The possibility of life after winter
And that winter made bears of us all
As we slumbered in those sleepy caves
We grumbled and growled at the cold
And we made a bed of our fat and fur
And we waited…
Now I listen to the March wind
Saying, something comes, something comes…
Something’s coming from the green ground
Something gone is on the rebound
And in the drip of the drops
In the splashes and splatters
I hear…
The promise of a sprouting seed
The hope of a return to earth
The possibility of life after winter
And it brings me back, brings me back…
It brings me back to the beginning
Back to the early morning
And in the drip of the drops
In the splashes and splatters
I hear…
The promise of a sprouting seed
The hope of a return to earth
The possibility of life after winter
And that winter made bears of us all
As we slumbered in those sleepy caves
We grumbled and growled at the cold
And we made a bed of our fat and fur
And we waited…
Now I listen to the March wind
Saying, something comes, something comes…
Something’s coming from the green ground
Something gone is on the rebound
And in the drip of the drops
In the splashes and splatters
I hear…
The promise of a sprouting seed
The hope of a return to earth
The possibility of life after winter
Love Song
The rhymer comes riding from underhill lands,
Falling through wide-open fields filled with heather.
He comes with reed basket and clay jugs of water,
He glides on the silver-scythe moonlight of harvest,
He sings with the sound of the breeze in his mouth.
So the rhymer comes riding with whistle and bow,
As the fairy-queen, crying, melts into the green,
And the breeze blows through the heather.
I dig dirt beneath stars and chew on sinewy roots.
I tear off the flower and suck on the stem.
I swallow the pith and spit.
I gnaw and scratch, claw and bite
Under the rock of the moon.
The rhymer, now down from his magical steed,
Whispering, wanders out into the purple.
I creep up behind him, eye him, worms in my teeth.
He uncorks an earth jug and pours out his body.
I swallow saliva and look, crack a stick underfoot.
He starts.
I stop.
Then...
We see one another, and you, through quivering stalks,
As the ripening light of the moon is devoured by clouds,
And the breeze blows through the heather.
Falling through wide-open fields filled with heather.
He comes with reed basket and clay jugs of water,
He glides on the silver-scythe moonlight of harvest,
He sings with the sound of the breeze in his mouth.
So the rhymer comes riding with whistle and bow,
As the fairy-queen, crying, melts into the green,
And the breeze blows through the heather.
I dig dirt beneath stars and chew on sinewy roots.
I tear off the flower and suck on the stem.
I swallow the pith and spit.
I gnaw and scratch, claw and bite
Under the rock of the moon.
The rhymer, now down from his magical steed,
Whispering, wanders out into the purple.
I creep up behind him, eye him, worms in my teeth.
He uncorks an earth jug and pours out his body.
I swallow saliva and look, crack a stick underfoot.
He starts.
I stop.
Then...
We see one another, and you, through quivering stalks,
As the ripening light of the moon is devoured by clouds,
And the breeze blows through the heather.
The San Diego Coaster Train
The San Diego coaster train glides against the blinding sky.
Machine-like driving senselessness follows its track into the sun.
All aboard seem serene, assured—
The sea-soaked sunlight glittering their eyes—
See the deep blue Pacific Ocean ignited,
Feel the free motion, near flight of the coaster train,
Burn with quick bright fire light, aware of where they’re flying to,
Yet smolder sleepily in shadows made by clouds.
And the hills that surround San Diego, nearby, are on fire.
Dry brush burns and eucalyptus trees melt
Or twist and explode
Or writhe
In a dance
Like a flame-tongue
With the sun-fire
As a partner
Or the fiddler.
High above that burning ground, still beneath the sun,
On Olympus sits a columned house on solid ground
Surrounded by those sleepy clouds, smoldering, slumbering.
There someone sees the train slip away into the sound of its whistle.
Then that too slips into the blue Pacific sizzle and pop.
The sun has passed from east to west,
Has burnt even those cool moist clouds
That shelter with dreaming shadows.
So, even the sleeping gods start to sweat.
And between the burning hills and the broad, boiling ocean,
The coaster train flies to the sun with near-flight motion.
Machine-like driving senselessness follows its track into the sun.
All aboard seem serene, assured—
The sea-soaked sunlight glittering their eyes—
See the deep blue Pacific Ocean ignited,
Feel the free motion, near flight of the coaster train,
Burn with quick bright fire light, aware of where they’re flying to,
Yet smolder sleepily in shadows made by clouds.
And the hills that surround San Diego, nearby, are on fire.
Dry brush burns and eucalyptus trees melt
Or twist and explode
Or writhe
In a dance
Like a flame-tongue
With the sun-fire
As a partner
Or the fiddler.
High above that burning ground, still beneath the sun,
On Olympus sits a columned house on solid ground
Surrounded by those sleepy clouds, smoldering, slumbering.
There someone sees the train slip away into the sound of its whistle.
Then that too slips into the blue Pacific sizzle and pop.
The sun has passed from east to west,
Has burnt even those cool moist clouds
That shelter with dreaming shadows.
So, even the sleeping gods start to sweat.
And between the burning hills and the broad, boiling ocean,
The coaster train flies to the sun with near-flight motion.
She Sees Only Teeth
I step out onto the green
Grass of the backyard
And she sees me
And our eyes meet
I step out, out of the stone house
Out of the back door
And she's startled
As two worlds meet
And I am predator
And she is prey
And I know she's got to run away
To keep herself alive
Coz as I lift my lips and smile
She sees only teeth
Grass of the backyard
And she sees me
And our eyes meet
I step out, out of the stone house
Out of the back door
And she's startled
As two worlds meet
And I am predator
And she is prey
And I know she's got to run away
To keep herself alive
Coz as I lift my lips and smile
She sees only teeth
Picture of a Perfect Day
On that pony, riding
You, a small boy
Someone's son
Sunlight gold
Even the browned, fading
Blackenwhite photo
"Of a perfect day"
Scrawled in faint pencil
On the flipside
No doubt in a moment of love
Of smiling looking-back
And peace and pride
In her beautiful, blue-eyed
Blonde-haired boy
Did she hold it with tears--
This same still?
Was the world young then?
Did time ooze like the honey sun?
Now you are old and I am young
And she is gone and life goes on
And on and on…as always.
But here are those same wise eyes
That innocent soul
The irrepressible spark
Still alive in you today
Captured in this still-frame
Picture of a perfect day
You, a small boy
Someone's son
Sunlight gold
Even the browned, fading
Blackenwhite photo
"Of a perfect day"
Scrawled in faint pencil
On the flipside
No doubt in a moment of love
Of smiling looking-back
And peace and pride
In her beautiful, blue-eyed
Blonde-haired boy
Did she hold it with tears--
This same still?
Was the world young then?
Did time ooze like the honey sun?
Now you are old and I am young
And she is gone and life goes on
And on and on…as always.
But here are those same wise eyes
That innocent soul
The irrepressible spark
Still alive in you today
Captured in this still-frame
Picture of a perfect day
Halfway There: Windjamming on Maine’s Penobscot Bay
published in the AAA Traveler
July, 2003
Whenever Captain Dan Pease of the coastal schooner Lewis R. French utters the words “we’re halfway there,” I have learned that it’s best not to believe a word of it.
You might hear him shout out, “halfway there,” while the crew, comprised mostly of paying passengers, is hauling rope to bring down the foresail, even if the task has only just begun. He might slyly reply with a twinkling eye, “we’re halfway there,” when someone asks how long to the day’s destination. Even while attempting to keep the fidgety group gathered together for one final photo before we disembarked on our last day, Captain Dan called out above the crowd, “we’re halfway there.”
“I don’t know why I say that,” I heard him explain to no one in particular. “It just comes out.”
Of course, when you go out sailing Maine’s Penobscot Bay aboard one of the Maine Windjammer Association’s fleet of historic schooners, there’s never really any there to be halfway to. Sure, there are ports of call: quaint old harbor towns, some which feature restaurants, shops and inns and many populated by folks, like lobstermen, who still earn their living from the sea. And there are thousands of fir-lined, rocky islands of varying shapes and sizes rising up from the water or looming through the fog. Some are home to hardy islanders, some feature summer cottages, others play host to the extravagant mansions of the newcomer rich and famous. And many remain untouched, home only to ospreys and eagles. But when we left the French’s homeport of Camden early on that first gray and rainy morning, it seemed our only certain course was simply to depart. We set off to catch the wind and to follow where it and the weather wanted us to go.
“We’re just out sailing; no big deal,” said the captain as he stood at the wheel in his bright yellow rain slicker, his impossibly long beard bejeweled with tiny drops of rain. “This is what it’s all about.”
And that it was. Aboard the French, I found no casinos, no all-night eateries (we ate just three hearty meals each day prepared in the galley by the ship’s cook—and that was plenty), no hot tubs, poolside bars or fitness centers complete with running track (we got plenty of exercise hauling the massive ropes that draw the anchor and raise the sails). There were no glitzy song and dance extravaganzas (the stage show consisted of Captain Dan sitting atop the galley hatch reading old sea shanties by the glow of lantern light). The cabins had no balconies, no radios and no TVs; the one shower aboard was located in a small closet on deck next to the “head” (that’s “toilet” for the landlubbers). There wasn’t a single duty-free shop, nightclub or video arcade for the kids. In fact, except for the captain’s teenage son, Joe, there weren’t any kids.
With all of these usual cruise diversions unavailable to me, what I was able to find, instead, was a true adventure, one that submerged me in an atmospheric experience and put me in touch with the ancient art of sailing. Aboard this creaky but cozy old boat, I felt closer to the wind and water than I could ever be on a luxury cruise liner that towers like a skyscraper on the sea. When the sheer force of the wind sometimes sent the boat heeling sharply to one side, the frothy, sun-speckled water came up over the sidewalls and slicked the wooden planks underfoot. Whenever the wind shifted just so, I heard the sound of flapping canvas sails overhead as they fluffed, followed by a sudden silence when they caught the wind full-on and billowed.
The captain and his first mate, Garth, worked the sails and rudder, responding to the wind’s will with an ease that belied their mastery. Their rapport--not only with the elements but with one another, too--was a joy to watch. It seemed to me a picture of that timeless relationship between old teacher and young apprentice, made even more poignant when I learned that Garth is to become the ship’s captain next year following Dan’s retirement.
There were friends of the captain onboard with us, too, some old and some new, adding a feeling of familial warmth. In fact, though we passengers came aboard as complete strangers, there was such a friendly feeling on the boat that it wasn’t long before we were acting like a family. Everyone helped with the tasks of preparing food and cleaning up after meals. At night, many of us would gather by the warmth of the wood stove in the galley to read or play board games as the boat gently rocked in the water. But of course, as with any family, togetherness could sometimes be too close for comfort. At night, some of us became painfully aware of our shipmates’ sleeping habits, particularly the snoring. The walls were paper-thin between the cabins, and everything—even whispering—cut through. It was all taken in good spirits, though. There was no mutiny and no one was forced to walk the plank. Still, I was glad that I had remembered to pack a pair of earplugs!
But it was also at night that I experienced some of the most quiet and meditative moments out on the water. Each night, we anchored in a peaceful harbor. At 10 o’clock, quiet hours began and a hush fell over the top deck. As the moon rose up over the bay, it’s light would dance and shimmer on the tiny waves in the water. That combined with the silence in the air had a mesmerizing effect. It inspired reflections of the day’s adventure and thoughts of what would come. Some were so enchanted by this magical moonlight, they brought their bedding up on deck and slept there all through the night, stars and night above, deep dark sea below.
In the morning, when the sun peeked through the tiny porthole in my snug cabin, just above the bunk, it woke me from a sleep more restful than I ever thought I could have in a little wooden box. I climbed up the ladder outside my cabin door. Others were up on deck already, taking in the warm morning sun. A feeling of anticipation was in the air. It was to be another beautiful day on the open bay sailing ever closer to our destination. And just where was that again?
“We’re halfway there,” said Captain Dan as we picked up another strong gust.
July, 2003
Whenever Captain Dan Pease of the coastal schooner Lewis R. French utters the words “we’re halfway there,” I have learned that it’s best not to believe a word of it.
You might hear him shout out, “halfway there,” while the crew, comprised mostly of paying passengers, is hauling rope to bring down the foresail, even if the task has only just begun. He might slyly reply with a twinkling eye, “we’re halfway there,” when someone asks how long to the day’s destination. Even while attempting to keep the fidgety group gathered together for one final photo before we disembarked on our last day, Captain Dan called out above the crowd, “we’re halfway there.”
“I don’t know why I say that,” I heard him explain to no one in particular. “It just comes out.”
Of course, when you go out sailing Maine’s Penobscot Bay aboard one of the Maine Windjammer Association’s fleet of historic schooners, there’s never really any there to be halfway to. Sure, there are ports of call: quaint old harbor towns, some which feature restaurants, shops and inns and many populated by folks, like lobstermen, who still earn their living from the sea. And there are thousands of fir-lined, rocky islands of varying shapes and sizes rising up from the water or looming through the fog. Some are home to hardy islanders, some feature summer cottages, others play host to the extravagant mansions of the newcomer rich and famous. And many remain untouched, home only to ospreys and eagles. But when we left the French’s homeport of Camden early on that first gray and rainy morning, it seemed our only certain course was simply to depart. We set off to catch the wind and to follow where it and the weather wanted us to go.
“We’re just out sailing; no big deal,” said the captain as he stood at the wheel in his bright yellow rain slicker, his impossibly long beard bejeweled with tiny drops of rain. “This is what it’s all about.”
And that it was. Aboard the French, I found no casinos, no all-night eateries (we ate just three hearty meals each day prepared in the galley by the ship’s cook—and that was plenty), no hot tubs, poolside bars or fitness centers complete with running track (we got plenty of exercise hauling the massive ropes that draw the anchor and raise the sails). There were no glitzy song and dance extravaganzas (the stage show consisted of Captain Dan sitting atop the galley hatch reading old sea shanties by the glow of lantern light). The cabins had no balconies, no radios and no TVs; the one shower aboard was located in a small closet on deck next to the “head” (that’s “toilet” for the landlubbers). There wasn’t a single duty-free shop, nightclub or video arcade for the kids. In fact, except for the captain’s teenage son, Joe, there weren’t any kids.
With all of these usual cruise diversions unavailable to me, what I was able to find, instead, was a true adventure, one that submerged me in an atmospheric experience and put me in touch with the ancient art of sailing. Aboard this creaky but cozy old boat, I felt closer to the wind and water than I could ever be on a luxury cruise liner that towers like a skyscraper on the sea. When the sheer force of the wind sometimes sent the boat heeling sharply to one side, the frothy, sun-speckled water came up over the sidewalls and slicked the wooden planks underfoot. Whenever the wind shifted just so, I heard the sound of flapping canvas sails overhead as they fluffed, followed by a sudden silence when they caught the wind full-on and billowed.
The captain and his first mate, Garth, worked the sails and rudder, responding to the wind’s will with an ease that belied their mastery. Their rapport--not only with the elements but with one another, too--was a joy to watch. It seemed to me a picture of that timeless relationship between old teacher and young apprentice, made even more poignant when I learned that Garth is to become the ship’s captain next year following Dan’s retirement.
There were friends of the captain onboard with us, too, some old and some new, adding a feeling of familial warmth. In fact, though we passengers came aboard as complete strangers, there was such a friendly feeling on the boat that it wasn’t long before we were acting like a family. Everyone helped with the tasks of preparing food and cleaning up after meals. At night, many of us would gather by the warmth of the wood stove in the galley to read or play board games as the boat gently rocked in the water. But of course, as with any family, togetherness could sometimes be too close for comfort. At night, some of us became painfully aware of our shipmates’ sleeping habits, particularly the snoring. The walls were paper-thin between the cabins, and everything—even whispering—cut through. It was all taken in good spirits, though. There was no mutiny and no one was forced to walk the plank. Still, I was glad that I had remembered to pack a pair of earplugs!
But it was also at night that I experienced some of the most quiet and meditative moments out on the water. Each night, we anchored in a peaceful harbor. At 10 o’clock, quiet hours began and a hush fell over the top deck. As the moon rose up over the bay, it’s light would dance and shimmer on the tiny waves in the water. That combined with the silence in the air had a mesmerizing effect. It inspired reflections of the day’s adventure and thoughts of what would come. Some were so enchanted by this magical moonlight, they brought their bedding up on deck and slept there all through the night, stars and night above, deep dark sea below.
In the morning, when the sun peeked through the tiny porthole in my snug cabin, just above the bunk, it woke me from a sleep more restful than I ever thought I could have in a little wooden box. I climbed up the ladder outside my cabin door. Others were up on deck already, taking in the warm morning sun. A feeling of anticipation was in the air. It was to be another beautiful day on the open bay sailing ever closer to our destination. And just where was that again?
“We’re halfway there,” said Captain Dan as we picked up another strong gust.
Magic Among the Mundane
I can’t be sure that the first thing I remember ever really happened or whether it was a dream, a story someone told me, or something I made up later in life. I was very young, standing somewhere in my home town in suburban New Jersey looking through the space between two little row houses. I don’t remember much detail; the houses were likely the humble two- or three-story, neatly kept and well-maintained affairs that lined the avenues of my childhood. Small manicured lawns with matching shrubs, a driveway beside each, maybe a small garage that housed an affordable, sensible car. Maybe an old cat sat upon a wooden fence post or was curled up in a ball upon a porch. Maybe a dog barked from some backyard nearby.
In my memory of this ordinary scene, something extraordinary then appeared. As I watched, I saw a figure on horseback, appearing ghostly to me in the haze and distance, move slowly down the street, passing through the space between the two houses. I remember that he wore the clothes of another time: a tri-cornered hat, brown knee-high leather boots, and a red or blue coat with gold buttons. I heard the clip clopping of horse hooves on the pavement until they vanished with this vision as it passed behind the house.
Thinking back now, I try to make sense of this strange apparition. Was I seeing a ghost? Was this just my imagination run wild? Or could this man have existed in the real world? One fact of my childhood makes me believe that it is possible this was real. In 1976, two years after I was born, many small towns across the country celebrated America’s bi-centennial anniversary with fireworks, picnics, and colonial re-enactments. This figure may indeed have been real, may have been our town’s mayor, a high school teacher, or an actor hired to set a certain mood for the day by riding down the street on horseback dressed as General Washington or some other figure from 1776.
This simple, historical fact may indeed explain away the mystery of the ghostly man on horseback. It might help me now to make rational sense of what mystified me as a child, but it does nothing to undo the sense of wonder it inspired in me then, a sense that has remained with me through all the years since. Growing up in what I remember as an uninspiring landscape filled with strip malls and highways dotted with neon signs screaming messages of crass commercialism, I looked everywhere for something more magical and mysterious to appear. Maybe this momentary vision that I encountered as a child created that hunger within me during my earliest, most formative days. Because I had seen something so strange and unexpected—a man that appeared impossibly out of a long-ago time and went walking down that common, simple street—I came to believe that, at any time, magic might appear again among the mundane, if only I knew where and how to look.
In my memory of this ordinary scene, something extraordinary then appeared. As I watched, I saw a figure on horseback, appearing ghostly to me in the haze and distance, move slowly down the street, passing through the space between the two houses. I remember that he wore the clothes of another time: a tri-cornered hat, brown knee-high leather boots, and a red or blue coat with gold buttons. I heard the clip clopping of horse hooves on the pavement until they vanished with this vision as it passed behind the house.
Thinking back now, I try to make sense of this strange apparition. Was I seeing a ghost? Was this just my imagination run wild? Or could this man have existed in the real world? One fact of my childhood makes me believe that it is possible this was real. In 1976, two years after I was born, many small towns across the country celebrated America’s bi-centennial anniversary with fireworks, picnics, and colonial re-enactments. This figure may indeed have been real, may have been our town’s mayor, a high school teacher, or an actor hired to set a certain mood for the day by riding down the street on horseback dressed as General Washington or some other figure from 1776.
This simple, historical fact may indeed explain away the mystery of the ghostly man on horseback. It might help me now to make rational sense of what mystified me as a child, but it does nothing to undo the sense of wonder it inspired in me then, a sense that has remained with me through all the years since. Growing up in what I remember as an uninspiring landscape filled with strip malls and highways dotted with neon signs screaming messages of crass commercialism, I looked everywhere for something more magical and mysterious to appear. Maybe this momentary vision that I encountered as a child created that hunger within me during my earliest, most formative days. Because I had seen something so strange and unexpected—a man that appeared impossibly out of a long-ago time and went walking down that common, simple street—I came to believe that, at any time, magic might appear again among the mundane, if only I knew where and how to look.
Bobby's Song
Bobby was often alone. His father had left several years before to start another family, and his mother stayed in bed most of the time. Bobby’s grandmother, who lived with them, explained to him that his mother was “sick,” but he didn’t really understand what she meant. His mother didn’t cough or seem to be in any pain. But she rarely left her room, and she slept most of the day.
Bobby’s grandmother worked in the factory next door. She didn't make much money, but it was enough for them to scrape by. They lived on the second floor of a two-family house on a busy street. Bobby was afraid to stay in the house when his mother was asleep and his grandmother was working. So, he often sat on the front stoop playing with toys he kept in a plain brown shoebox. He would watch the factory workers pass by in the morning, at lunchtime and just before supper.
“Hello! How are you today?” they would sometimes ask him. But they were always in a hurry and could never stop for long.
At that time, there was a big war happening. Most of the world was fighting it. The war was far away from where Bobby lived, far over the ocean, but many people in Bobby’s neighborhood knew someone who had to go and fight in it.
One evening, as Bobby waited on the stoop for his grandmother to come home, he started to sing a song he often heard on his grandmother's radio in the kitchen. Bobby didn’t know what the song was about, but he liked the melody and it stuck in his head. He knew the last verse the best:
I’ll find you in the mornin’ sun
And when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon
But I’ll be seeing you
“That’s a nice song,” said a lady, as she passed.
“O, I love that one,” said someone else, smiling.
Bobby glanced at them and blushed. But he kept singing. More passers-by stopped for a moment to listen.
“So sweet,” said one lady to another.
“Makes me think of my Bill,” the other replied.
“And my Joey. It wasn’t so long ago he was home playing with his toys. And now…”
The other lady patted her friend’s arm gently as they walked away. Bobby kept singing. A man dropped a nickel into Bobby’s shoebox as he passing by swiftly, saying, “nice song, kid.” Another dropped in a dime. Bobby’s eyes opened wide as he saw the coins fall into his box.
Wow! People give you money just for singing? he thought.
So, Bobby continued to sing, and as they left the factory, people continued to stop for a moment to listen and toss a few more coins into his box.
After some time, the little boy looked into his shoebox and couldn’t believe it! Inside, scattered among his army men and toy cars, were several bright, shiny coins.
Bobby’s grandmother walked up the sidewalk slowly as the last of the listeners began to walk away.
She eyed them with a curious glance.
“Hi, Bobby,” his grandmother said as she sat down beside him.
“Hi, Grandma,” Bobby said. He could see that she looked tired. “How was your day?”
“O, fine,” she said. “How about yours?”
He grinned and pointed at his box.
The old woman picked it up and looked inside. “Wow, where did you get that?”
“I was just sitting here,” said Bobby, “and people started throwing money in my box!”
“Now, why would they do that?”
“It must be the box,” he said. “Maybe it’s magic!”
“Magic, huh?” his grandmother raised an eyebrow. “What were you doing here while you were waiting?”
“What I always do. Playing with my army men.”
“Anything else?”
Bobby gave a bashful shrug and said, “I was singing, too.”
“Singing? What were you singing?”
Bobby blushed. “Just a song from the radio.”
“O ya? What song?”
“Well, the one that goes…” Bobby hummed the tune.
His grandmother thought for a moment.
“Bobby,” she said. “Those people gave you that money to thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
“For singing them that song. It’s special.”
Bobby looked at his grandmother.
“This is a sad time for a lot of people, Bobby. They can’t see the ones they love because of the war, and they miss them.”
Bobby listened.
“That song reminds people of better times. It makes them feel hopeful. Especially when you sing it.”
“Me? Why me?” Bobby asked.
His grandmother just smiled and leaned in to give him a hug.
“O, just because you’re you,” she said and winked.
Bobby felt proud. He never knew it could help so much just to sing a song.
“Grandma,” Bobby said.
“Yes?”
“Here.” He handed her the box.
“No, Bobby. This is your money. You earned it.”
“I want you to have it, Grandma. Then, maybe you won’t have to go to work so much.”
She hugged the little boy tighter. “O, Bobby. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I could be home here with you more than I am.”
The two sat together for a moment listening to the crickets and the sound of car engines and barking dogs.
“Tell you what,” she continued. “Come out here every day with your magic box and keep singing those songs of yours. That’ll be your job. And I’ll be right next door doing my job, too. And maybe, in a little while, things will get better. Maybe soon we won’t have to be apart so much. And we can do more fun things together. Deal?”
“Deal,” Bobby said.
And they shook hands, stood up, and walked together into the house.
Bobby’s grandmother worked in the factory next door. She didn't make much money, but it was enough for them to scrape by. They lived on the second floor of a two-family house on a busy street. Bobby was afraid to stay in the house when his mother was asleep and his grandmother was working. So, he often sat on the front stoop playing with toys he kept in a plain brown shoebox. He would watch the factory workers pass by in the morning, at lunchtime and just before supper.
“Hello! How are you today?” they would sometimes ask him. But they were always in a hurry and could never stop for long.
At that time, there was a big war happening. Most of the world was fighting it. The war was far away from where Bobby lived, far over the ocean, but many people in Bobby’s neighborhood knew someone who had to go and fight in it.
One evening, as Bobby waited on the stoop for his grandmother to come home, he started to sing a song he often heard on his grandmother's radio in the kitchen. Bobby didn’t know what the song was about, but he liked the melody and it stuck in his head. He knew the last verse the best:
I’ll find you in the mornin’ sun
And when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon
But I’ll be seeing you
“That’s a nice song,” said a lady, as she passed.
“O, I love that one,” said someone else, smiling.
Bobby glanced at them and blushed. But he kept singing. More passers-by stopped for a moment to listen.
“So sweet,” said one lady to another.
“Makes me think of my Bill,” the other replied.
“And my Joey. It wasn’t so long ago he was home playing with his toys. And now…”
The other lady patted her friend’s arm gently as they walked away. Bobby kept singing. A man dropped a nickel into Bobby’s shoebox as he passing by swiftly, saying, “nice song, kid.” Another dropped in a dime. Bobby’s eyes opened wide as he saw the coins fall into his box.
Wow! People give you money just for singing? he thought.
So, Bobby continued to sing, and as they left the factory, people continued to stop for a moment to listen and toss a few more coins into his box.
After some time, the little boy looked into his shoebox and couldn’t believe it! Inside, scattered among his army men and toy cars, were several bright, shiny coins.
Bobby’s grandmother walked up the sidewalk slowly as the last of the listeners began to walk away.
She eyed them with a curious glance.
“Hi, Bobby,” his grandmother said as she sat down beside him.
“Hi, Grandma,” Bobby said. He could see that she looked tired. “How was your day?”
“O, fine,” she said. “How about yours?”
He grinned and pointed at his box.
The old woman picked it up and looked inside. “Wow, where did you get that?”
“I was just sitting here,” said Bobby, “and people started throwing money in my box!”
“Now, why would they do that?”
“It must be the box,” he said. “Maybe it’s magic!”
“Magic, huh?” his grandmother raised an eyebrow. “What were you doing here while you were waiting?”
“What I always do. Playing with my army men.”
“Anything else?”
Bobby gave a bashful shrug and said, “I was singing, too.”
“Singing? What were you singing?”
Bobby blushed. “Just a song from the radio.”
“O ya? What song?”
“Well, the one that goes…” Bobby hummed the tune.
His grandmother thought for a moment.
“Bobby,” she said. “Those people gave you that money to thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
“For singing them that song. It’s special.”
Bobby looked at his grandmother.
“This is a sad time for a lot of people, Bobby. They can’t see the ones they love because of the war, and they miss them.”
Bobby listened.
“That song reminds people of better times. It makes them feel hopeful. Especially when you sing it.”
“Me? Why me?” Bobby asked.
His grandmother just smiled and leaned in to give him a hug.
“O, just because you’re you,” she said and winked.
Bobby felt proud. He never knew it could help so much just to sing a song.
“Grandma,” Bobby said.
“Yes?”
“Here.” He handed her the box.
“No, Bobby. This is your money. You earned it.”
“I want you to have it, Grandma. Then, maybe you won’t have to go to work so much.”
She hugged the little boy tighter. “O, Bobby. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I could be home here with you more than I am.”
The two sat together for a moment listening to the crickets and the sound of car engines and barking dogs.
“Tell you what,” she continued. “Come out here every day with your magic box and keep singing those songs of yours. That’ll be your job. And I’ll be right next door doing my job, too. And maybe, in a little while, things will get better. Maybe soon we won’t have to be apart so much. And we can do more fun things together. Deal?”
“Deal,” Bobby said.
And they shook hands, stood up, and walked together into the house.
Overhill and Underhill
1. The Progress of Souls
As through the land at eve we went,
Overhill and underhill,
And along the watercourse way,
We had seen into the soul of things.
We two,
Birthed alone into the world,
Together for a moment in a car.
Carrying our burdens,
We raced against the sky,
Against the ending of the day,
To keep these memories savored
Somehow to preserve the pulsing of life
Before it could be washed away.
This is the reason we sing.
This is why we will always sing:
So that we never forget
What the moment revealed
From the secret fountain
On the mountainside.
O highway we travel
You express us better
Than we express ourselves
As endless as beginningless
You turn nothing away
You are the universal road
For traveling souls
Forever forward
Ever before us
All parts away
All parts away
All parts away
For the progress of souls
Overhill and underhill,
And along the watercourse way,
We had seen into the soul of things.
We two,
Birthed alone into the world,
Together for a moment in a car.
Carrying our burdens,
We raced against the sky,
Against the ending of the day,
To keep these memories savored
Somehow to preserve the pulsing of life
Before it could be washed away.
This is the reason we sing.
This is why we will always sing:
So that we never forget
What the moment revealed
From the secret fountain
On the mountainside.
O highway we travel
You express us better
Than we express ourselves
As endless as beginningless
You turn nothing away
You are the universal road
For traveling souls
Forever forward
Ever before us
All parts away
All parts away
All parts away
For the progress of souls
2. Sound on the Mountain
Was that a sound on the mountain?
How could we both have heard it,
Silent as it was?
Do you still hear it now?
Do you remember?
We stepped off that stone wall
We were so uncertain and scared
But we held each other
As we looked into the infinite
And a future life we would not know
Together
But in that moment
Our shelter
Gave us courage
We made a promise then
To face what came
With eyes open and hearts untamed
And we fell into the sky
Starting rings
Ever-spreading
Over the Earth
Forward, backward, outward and out of time
Do you hear it now?
Whenever we remember
The distance doesn’t matter
Whenever we remember
Neither does the time
Stop now and remember
Do you hear the song
In the sound on the mountain?
Do you still hear it now?
Do you remember?
We stepped off that stone wall
We were so uncertain and scared
But we held each other
As we looked into the infinite
And a future life we would not know
Together
But in that moment
Our shelter
Gave us courage
We made a promise then
To face what came
With eyes open and hearts untamed
And we fell into the sky
Starting rings
Ever-spreading
Over the Earth
Forward, backward, outward and out of time
Do you hear it now?
Whenever we remember
The distance doesn’t matter
Whenever we remember
Neither does the time
Stop now and remember
Do you hear the song
In the sound on the mountain?
3. The Origin of Songs
I know now
The origin of songs
Is a seed inside each one
A seed sown long ago
Watered by that silent spring
The secret source of everything
Is a seed inside each one
A seed sown long ago
Watered by that silent spring
The secret source of everything
When I came down the mountain
And went alone into the forest
I wrapped myself around a tree
And this began in me
This began in me
And went alone into the forest
I wrapped myself around a tree
And this began in me
This began in me
You were there
You led me to the opening
You taught me how to sing
But when I asked you for the song
You were gone
You were gone
You led me to the opening
You taught me how to sing
But when I asked you for the song
You were gone
You were gone
So, now I do my best
To listen and remember
And to carry on
To carry on
To listen and remember
And to carry on
To carry on
4. Along an Endless Highway
I can only linger so long
In these memories of you
The green is gone
It’s winter, now
And I am going grey
And now I can’t remember
What it was I wanted to say
To you
There were many things
We meant to do
Now, all I have are memories
I relive them as I write them
But none of this brings you back
None of this can make it green again
We are moved along an endless highway
We begin, we go and gain
Momentum by the pull of gravity
And the persistence of memory
Promise pulls us forward
Toward something we remember
Long ago and deep inside
In either way, bound by time
Are we ever really free?
Ah, but at the still point
On the mountaintop
Where the fountain
Springs upward from the stone
There the clear water comes
From some source unseen
We can mix it with the pigment
The blood and clay and carcass
Of the Earth
We can run like a river
Along a watercourse way
Overhill and underhill
As through the land at eve we go
Kawai the Sea Turtle
Sea turtles have always known the ocean is their home. They
spend their lives in the water, coming to shore only once in a great while to
lay their eggs in the sand. The little hatchlings break out of their shells and
toddle down to the water, where they are lifted up by the waves and carried far
away. Somehow they are born knowing where they belong.
Among this tribe was a young sea turtle named Kawai, who lived with her family in the shadow of the wall. Kawai had always been very curious, and one day she asked, “Mama, why can’t we go near the water?”
“Kawai! We do not speak of it. It is forbidden,” her mother replied.
“But why? It makes such a sweet sound. I want to go see it.”
Her mother stopped her with a flipper to the shell. “The sea is filled with dangers, Kawai. The elders say there are monsters that live beneath the waves. And they say the waters rise without warning to pull young turtles out to sea, never to be seen again. Never, ever go near the water, Kawai!”
The young turtle had heard these stories all her life, but now, she was beginning to wonder how they could be true. She wanted very badly to climb over the wall and find out.
That night Kawai dreamed the waves rolled up the beach and gushed down through the tunnels. It found her there in the cozy cranny where she slept with her family. As it filled the hole, they were all afraid and didn’t know what to do. Kawai awoke with her heart racing. She needed to see for herself whether the water was rising, so she silently slipped away from her family, climbed the wall and walked down to the water’s edge.
Kawai looked out at the enormous ocean and felt afraid, thinking of her mother’s many warnings. She was about to turn to go back to her hole, when suddenly she heard a voice call out, “Hello!”
Kawai peered out over the waves, and in the dim moonlight, she saw something out there. It was white, with a long beak, curved and pointed at the end. It floated on the surface of the waves, bobbing up and down.
“Nice night for a swim,” said the seabird.
“A swim! No. I don’t swim. I shouldn’t even be here. My mother would…”
“What do you mean you don’t swim? You’re a sea turtle, aren’t you?”
“Well, I…I…” Kawai stammered.
“What else do sea turtles do but swim?”
The seabird splashed his feathery wings into the water and dipped his beak a bit. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”
Kawai looked back over her shell toward the wall. Behind it, the tunnels of her tribe lay hidden in the dunes. She imagined her family sleeping peacefully in their hole in the sand, and part of her wanted to go back to where she would be safe and dry. But she couldn’t stop thinking of her dream, of the water that flooded their homes.
She looked back toward the seabird. “But I don’t know how!”
“Yes, you do! Look at those flippers you have. They were made for swimming.”
Kawai moved one of her flippers in the water and noticed how easily it glided just below the surface.
“It does feel nice,” she whispered.
“Come on,” said the seabird. “You’ll love it, I promise.”
“All right. Here goes.” And with a deep breath, Kawai plunged her body into the sea.
“That’s it!” cried the seabird. “Now, swim to me. Use your flippers!”
Kawai began to move her flippers forward and back. They sliced the waves easily.
“I had no idea!” said Kawai as she neared the seabird. “This is amazing! It’s so much easier to swim than to walk on the sand.”
“Of course it is. You’re a sea turtle. You were made for the water. Just like I was made for the sky.” And with that, the seabird spread his wings. “Have a nice swim!” he said as he lifted off and flew away.
Kawai laughed as she swam back to shore, then out again, then back again, then out again, venturing out a little further each time. She dipped beneath the water, then surfaced, then went down again deeper to touch the bottom, then surfaced again with a spray of water from her mouth. In all her life, the young turtle had never felt so free and so alive.
“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Kawai thought. “The ocean isn’t dangerous for sea turtles. We know how to swim!”
Kawai glided back to land and hurried up the beach. “I have to tell everyone,” she said. “I have to make them understand.”
At that very moment, miles from the coast, the earth began to quake under the sea. It sent a great wave rolling toward the turtles on the shore. But Kawai did not feel the quake, nor did she see the wave. With joy in her heart, she climbed the wall and returned to her tribe as the first light of day appeared in the sky. Out of each hole in the sand, the members of her tribe began to emerge.
“Listen, everyone!” she called. “I have something to tell you.”
The sea turtles began to gather around Kawai.
“I was just down to the water’s edge,” she said.
A fearful murmuring broke out among the crowd.
Kawai said, “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
“One so young cannot know the dangers of the sea,” said the elder.
“But I have been in the ocean,” said Kawai. “I swam in the ocean. And it was wonderful! Not dangerous at all.”
“This cannot be,” said the elder. “It must be a lie. We do not swim.”
“But we can swim,” said Kawai. “It is what we were made for! Come to the water, and let me show you!”
Suddenly, a wave of panic spread through the crowd of turtles as their eyes turned upward and out in the direction of the sea. Kawai turned to see a wave coming toward them, so high it towered over their wall of shells and driftwood. Terrified, the turtles began to turn back toward their holes.
“No!” Kawai shouted. Her mind flooded with images of her dream. “Do not go into your holes. If you do, you will drown when the water washes over us.”
“But what should we do?” said one.
“When the water comes in, begin to move your flippers like this,” she said. “The water will lift you up, and then you will find that you can swim!”
Kawai’s confidence comforted the turtles as they realized they could not escape the wave.
“Don’t be afraid,” she called. “Just move your flippers and hold your breath, and we will be alright.”
The turtles turned toward the water and waited. Just then, the wave washed over the beach, smashing the wall, flooding the holes, and lifting the turtles up. Following Kawai’s lead, they all began to move their flippers, and just as she had said they could, they all began to swim.
The current was strong; it pulled them inland, but the turtles rode the wave, flapping their flippers and staying afloat. And when the water subsided, every turtle had survived.
From that day on, this tribe of sea turtles no longer stayed on land. With joy in their hearts, they swam deep into the depths and spouted water in the sunshine as they surfaced. And they never were afraid to swim again.
And Kawai grew to become their courageous leader and their most honored teacher.
But once there was a litter of baby sea turtles that never
left the shore. The night they hatched, there was a terrible storm. The wind
screeched above the waves and lightning broke the sky. The dark water flooded
the beach and carried in strange spiky creatures from the deep. The scared
little hatchlings scuttled back into their holes. And instead of living their
lives in the ocean, they formed a land-dwelling tribe. They built a wall of
driftwood, shells, and sand to block the sight of the sea that made them so
afraid. And for many generations, these turtles continued to live among the
dunes, burrowing tunnels in the sand, laying eggs and raising their young.
Though their bodies were designed to swim and dive, none of them had ever
ventured off to sea.
Among this tribe was a young sea turtle named Kawai, who lived with her family in the shadow of the wall. Kawai had always been very curious, and one day she asked, “Mama, why can’t we go near the water?”
“Kawai! We do not speak of it. It is forbidden,” her mother replied.
“But why? It makes such a sweet sound. I want to go see it.”
Her mother stopped her with a flipper to the shell. “The sea is filled with dangers, Kawai. The elders say there are monsters that live beneath the waves. And they say the waters rise without warning to pull young turtles out to sea, never to be seen again. Never, ever go near the water, Kawai!”
The young turtle had heard these stories all her life, but now, she was beginning to wonder how they could be true. She wanted very badly to climb over the wall and find out.
That night Kawai dreamed the waves rolled up the beach and gushed down through the tunnels. It found her there in the cozy cranny where she slept with her family. As it filled the hole, they were all afraid and didn’t know what to do. Kawai awoke with her heart racing. She needed to see for herself whether the water was rising, so she silently slipped away from her family, climbed the wall and walked down to the water’s edge.
Kawai looked out at the enormous ocean and felt afraid, thinking of her mother’s many warnings. She was about to turn to go back to her hole, when suddenly she heard a voice call out, “Hello!”
Kawai peered out over the waves, and in the dim moonlight, she saw something out there. It was white, with a long beak, curved and pointed at the end. It floated on the surface of the waves, bobbing up and down.
“Nice night for a swim,” said the seabird.
“A swim! No. I don’t swim. I shouldn’t even be here. My mother would…”
“What do you mean you don’t swim? You’re a sea turtle, aren’t you?”
“Well, I…I…” Kawai stammered.
“What else do sea turtles do but swim?”
The seabird splashed his feathery wings into the water and dipped his beak a bit. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”
Kawai looked back over her shell toward the wall. Behind it, the tunnels of her tribe lay hidden in the dunes. She imagined her family sleeping peacefully in their hole in the sand, and part of her wanted to go back to where she would be safe and dry. But she couldn’t stop thinking of her dream, of the water that flooded their homes.
She looked back toward the seabird. “But I don’t know how!”
“Yes, you do! Look at those flippers you have. They were made for swimming.”
Kawai moved one of her flippers in the water and noticed how easily it glided just below the surface.
“It does feel nice,” she whispered.
“Come on,” said the seabird. “You’ll love it, I promise.”
“All right. Here goes.” And with a deep breath, Kawai plunged her body into the sea.
“That’s it!” cried the seabird. “Now, swim to me. Use your flippers!”
Kawai began to move her flippers forward and back. They sliced the waves easily.
“I had no idea!” said Kawai as she neared the seabird. “This is amazing! It’s so much easier to swim than to walk on the sand.”
“Of course it is. You’re a sea turtle. You were made for the water. Just like I was made for the sky.” And with that, the seabird spread his wings. “Have a nice swim!” he said as he lifted off and flew away.
Kawai laughed as she swam back to shore, then out again, then back again, then out again, venturing out a little further each time. She dipped beneath the water, then surfaced, then went down again deeper to touch the bottom, then surfaced again with a spray of water from her mouth. In all her life, the young turtle had never felt so free and so alive.
“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Kawai thought. “The ocean isn’t dangerous for sea turtles. We know how to swim!”
Kawai glided back to land and hurried up the beach. “I have to tell everyone,” she said. “I have to make them understand.”
At that very moment, miles from the coast, the earth began to quake under the sea. It sent a great wave rolling toward the turtles on the shore. But Kawai did not feel the quake, nor did she see the wave. With joy in her heart, she climbed the wall and returned to her tribe as the first light of day appeared in the sky. Out of each hole in the sand, the members of her tribe began to emerge.
“Listen, everyone!” she called. “I have something to tell you.”
The sea turtles began to gather around Kawai.
“I was just down to the water’s edge,” she said.
A fearful murmuring broke out among the crowd.
Kawai said, “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
“One so young cannot know the dangers of the sea,” said the elder.
“But I have been in the ocean,” said Kawai. “I swam in the ocean. And it was wonderful! Not dangerous at all.”
“This cannot be,” said the elder. “It must be a lie. We do not swim.”
“But we can swim,” said Kawai. “It is what we were made for! Come to the water, and let me show you!”
Suddenly, a wave of panic spread through the crowd of turtles as their eyes turned upward and out in the direction of the sea. Kawai turned to see a wave coming toward them, so high it towered over their wall of shells and driftwood. Terrified, the turtles began to turn back toward their holes.
“No!” Kawai shouted. Her mind flooded with images of her dream. “Do not go into your holes. If you do, you will drown when the water washes over us.”
“But what should we do?” said one.
“When the water comes in, begin to move your flippers like this,” she said. “The water will lift you up, and then you will find that you can swim!”
Kawai’s confidence comforted the turtles as they realized they could not escape the wave.
“Don’t be afraid,” she called. “Just move your flippers and hold your breath, and we will be alright.”
The turtles turned toward the water and waited. Just then, the wave washed over the beach, smashing the wall, flooding the holes, and lifting the turtles up. Following Kawai’s lead, they all began to move their flippers, and just as she had said they could, they all began to swim.
The current was strong; it pulled them inland, but the turtles rode the wave, flapping their flippers and staying afloat. And when the water subsided, every turtle had survived.
From that day on, this tribe of sea turtles no longer stayed on land. With joy in their hearts, they swam deep into the depths and spouted water in the sunshine as they surfaced. And they never were afraid to swim again.
And Kawai grew to become their courageous leader and their most honored teacher.
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
The Company of Others
I wandered out of the woods, onto the city streets. Then, I
passed through the marketplace and through the city gates, and I wandered out into
a wild and empty place, without home, without street, without tree, without
root. Rootless and barren, I stood in it alone. And once I was there, I could
not find a way out. I had no sense of where I should go next. I knew I couldn't
return to the woods or to the city, even if I could find them. So, I stayed in
this place, staring up into the cloudless sky. And though it was dark, I could
see no stars. Night became cold, grey day, and day became night. Many days
passed uneventfully. And then, one morning, while I stood staring blankly into
empty heaven, I heard the sound of footsteps. I looked down from the sky.
“Hello!” called the stranger as he approached. He looked like a seller in the market, though his coat was rough and ragged, as if it had been worn through a long journey.
I looked at him silently. My voice seemed to strain from deep beneath the earth. I realized I had not spoken in ages. “Hello,” I answered faintly.
“I didn't expect to find you here,” he said.
I looked at him blankly. “You didn't,” I replied.
“No,” he said plainly and leaned his body heavily against a grey boulder that lay nearby. He pulled an apple and a small dirty blade from a fold in his coat and began to cut a piece off. “It's a long way to go,” he added with a thumb cast lightly back in the direction from which he had come. I noticed beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, lit by the faint grey light of the sky.
“What is?” I asked, my body now beginning to turn slightly toward him.
The stranger appeared not to have heard me. After a moment, I started again, “What…”
“Huh?” he said, as if noticing me for the first time. “O. It's a long way here from my shop in the market square.”
The stranger scanned me up and down; a look of concern clouded his expression. “How long have you been wandering around out here, anyway?” he asked. “It's a long way to go,” he echoed his earlier words with a note of sadness.
I had been alone, lost, for so long, it felt so strange to speak. I struggled to answer.
The stranger looked at me with growing sadness in his eyes. “Why did you leave us?” he asked after a long silence. “What was so awful about us that it drove you out into this godless place?”
“God,” I stammered. The word seemed significant, as if it was attached to things that once meant something to me. I tried to make the connection. I looked into the eyes of the merchant. His gaze seemed to go only as far as the place where my thoughts clamored to become words. I could feel the limit of his understanding. He could not see what I could not say.
“That IS why...” I mumbled, then turned away. A single bird appeared in the sky and glided over the horizon. I clenched my fists and grit my teeth, then went limp again. “I don't remember,” I muttered and shook my head.
The stranger stood and walked up behind me. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Come back with me, friend,” he said with gentleness in his voice. “Come back to us.”
My footsteps grazed the ground like dried leaves in the wind, barely touching the desert sand and leaving no impression. I was like a brown, empty husk. Beside me, the merchant walked with proud purpose. It was as if he challenged the sun ahead on the horizon to roll to us, so he could kick it into space. He was fearless and relentless. Occasionally, he placed a hand on my back and gave a gentle shove to speed me on my way. I was lost in thought, but he didn't notice. He talked to me with eyes ahead.
“Now, you've got to remember one thing, my friend,” I heard him say. “A man needs the company of others. A man needs to be with a family. He needs to wake in the morning and go to the market and do an honest day's work…”
His voice became a drone in my ears. It continued to hum and buzz even as my body, leaf-like and lifeless, began to float up from the surface of the earth. He took my hand in his as much to lead me on as to keep me from drifting away.
I went with him to the market square, where the crowds of people became a single, throbbing body of getting and spending, of coming and going, of money exchanged for goods, of street talk and laughter. I watched them all from a distance, as if I still stood out in that wild and empty place from which the merchant had plucked me. I was back in the company of others, though I had not returned. I didn't know whether I ever could...
Closer to Home
Heading home
After many years away
So many memories
And places I did stray
In all my wanderings
I never lost the sight
Of the well-worn doorway
That I will cross tonight, that I will cross tonight
Coming ever closer
To the home I love
And the simple comforts
I’ve been dreaming of, I’ve been dreaming of
Every soul encountered
Let a little light in my life
With words of wonder
They opened up my mind
Now my ears are weary
With the stories they have heard
I wanna be with the ones
Who understand without a word, they understand without a word
Coming ever closer
To the ones I love
And the silent solace
I’ve been dreaming of, I’ve been dreaming of
Home, home, home, home
I was wild and restless
The horizon was my desire
I’d never trade my freedom
For some comfort by the fire
Now I know no matter
Where I turned to as I roamed
Everywhere I wandered
Every road was leading home, every road was leading home
Coming ever closer
To the home I love
And the simple comforts
I’ve been dreaming of, I’ve been dreaming of
Coming ever closer
To the ones I love
And the silent solace
I’ve been dreaming of, I’ve been dreaming of
Home
After many years away
So many memories
And places I did stray
In all my wanderings
I never lost the sight
Of the well-worn doorway
That I will cross tonight, that I will cross tonight
Coming ever closer
To the home I love
And the simple comforts
I’ve been dreaming of, I’ve been dreaming of
Every soul encountered
Let a little light in my life
With words of wonder
They opened up my mind
Now my ears are weary
With the stories they have heard
I wanna be with the ones
Who understand without a word, they understand without a word
Coming ever closer
To the ones I love
And the silent solace
I’ve been dreaming of, I’ve been dreaming of
Home, home, home, home
I was wild and restless
The horizon was my desire
I’d never trade my freedom
For some comfort by the fire
Now I know no matter
Where I turned to as I roamed
Everywhere I wandered
Every road was leading home, every road was leading home
Coming ever closer
To the home I love
And the simple comforts
I’ve been dreaming of, I’ve been dreaming of
Coming ever closer
To the ones I love
And the silent solace
I’ve been dreaming of, I’ve been dreaming of
Home
Song of the Open Road
O, we rode up that mountain road
Two pilgrims to the shrine
Round shining rings in sunlit skies
Heard silent words, eyes open wide
Then climbed up birches toward heaven
We went out of our minds
The time behind, the dream sublime
The engine and the churchbell chime
Oooooo
The autumn swelled, the apples fell
Down rotting on the ground
Round the mountain where the water flowed
We heard the song of the open road
The song of the open road
The song of the open road
Oooooo
Two pilgrims to the shrine
Round shining rings in sunlit skies
Heard silent words, eyes open wide
Then climbed up birches toward heaven
We went out of our minds
The time behind, the dream sublime
The engine and the churchbell chime
Oooooo
The autumn swelled, the apples fell
Down rotting on the ground
Round the mountain where the water flowed
We heard the song of the open road
The song of the open road
The song of the open road
Oooooo
The Commute
Along the electric-lit coastline
Along the edge of the infinite Atlantic
Through the inlets, over bridges
Beneath a blanket of cloud
The throbbing body
Sings its whistle
Hisses up into the air
Gliding on iron wings
Glowing ore oozing from a furnace
Steam escapes, whisps, disappears
As the glow fades
Then the cooling capsule plunges deep into the sea
Sending salty water splashing high above the clouds
Out beyond the atmosphere, out of time, drifting...
Beneath the waves, the people sway
Gently by the tide
The passengers ride, watching the gulls glide overhead
And at each stop, someone stands
Packs herself into a bundle
Steps into the doorway, waits
Then, seeing that the train has stopped
Slips out and swims away, home from work
Along the edge of the infinite Atlantic
Through the inlets, over bridges
Beneath a blanket of cloud
The throbbing body
Sings its whistle
Hisses up into the air
Gliding on iron wings
Glowing ore oozing from a furnace
Steam escapes, whisps, disappears
As the glow fades
Then the cooling capsule plunges deep into the sea
Sending salty water splashing high above the clouds
Out beyond the atmosphere, out of time, drifting...
Beneath the waves, the people sway
Gently by the tide
The passengers ride, watching the gulls glide overhead
And at each stop, someone stands
Packs herself into a bundle
Steps into the doorway, waits
Then, seeing that the train has stopped
Slips out and swims away, home from work
Standing in Traffic Over Railroad Tracks
Light track, dark track
Forward and back track
Neither one any more real than the other
Curving to my left and curving to my right
Each one disappearing off into the outer space
I stand in the middle on a bridge in between
On yellow traffic lines, looking out for cars to come
So I won't
Get
Hit
Forward and back track
Neither one any more real than the other
Curving to my left and curving to my right
Each one disappearing off into the outer space
I stand in the middle on a bridge in between
On yellow traffic lines, looking out for cars to come
So I won't
Get
Hit
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Among the Primeval Shadows
Written for edithwharton.org
Published on October 14, 2014
If Edith Wharton lamented the damage done to the imagination by “the wireless (radio) and the cinema” back in the early part of the last century, if she was sad to think that our “ghost instinct” was in danger of disappearing among the distractions of modern life long before smart phones and special effects, I can only imagine how depressed she’d be today. With so many gadgets and so much information forever tugging at our attention, it’s nearly impossible to find the “silence and continuity” she believed was needed to go deep into “the warm darkness…far below our conscious reason (where) the faculty dwells with which we apprehend…ghosts.”
When I take a group of ghost seekers through the darkened hallways and rooms of The Mount during a ghost tour, I invite them to meet me “halfway,” as Wharton wrote, “among the primeval shadows…filling in the gaps in my narrative with sensations and divinations akin to my own.” I ask them to listen to the many tales we have to tell of ghostly encounters and to reach out into the dark with their senses, staying open to the possibility that they, too, might have an encounter of their own.
Even if nothing happens, I believe the experience is worthwhile. Whenever we reach out with our senses open and our imagination engaged, we do make contact with some mysterious presence that lies deeper than intellectual understanding. And making that connection reawakens a sense of wonder.
That’s what I love most about leading the ghost tours at The Mount. Time and time again, I’ve seen visitors happily turn off their phones, forget the many distractions of daily life, suspend their disbelief, and walk with eager anticipation into the possibility of encountering something truly mystifying. I’ve seen people react with delight, even when genuinely spooked, as we pass the window through which a skeletal face has been seen or stand at the bottom of the attic stairs listening for faint footsteps. I believe the ghost tours at The Mount help to keep these stories alive and the imagination engaged. And they help to keep us open to a sense of mysterious possibility. All of this, I think, might very well have renewed Wharton’s faith in us moderns.
I also have it on good authority that the ghosts, too, are happy that we are telling their stories. “For,” as Wharton wrote, “the ghost should never be allowed to forget that his only chance of survival is in the tales of those who have encountered him.”
Published on October 14, 2014
If Edith Wharton lamented the damage done to the imagination by “the wireless (radio) and the cinema” back in the early part of the last century, if she was sad to think that our “ghost instinct” was in danger of disappearing among the distractions of modern life long before smart phones and special effects, I can only imagine how depressed she’d be today. With so many gadgets and so much information forever tugging at our attention, it’s nearly impossible to find the “silence and continuity” she believed was needed to go deep into “the warm darkness…far below our conscious reason (where) the faculty dwells with which we apprehend…ghosts.”
When I take a group of ghost seekers through the darkened hallways and rooms of The Mount during a ghost tour, I invite them to meet me “halfway,” as Wharton wrote, “among the primeval shadows…filling in the gaps in my narrative with sensations and divinations akin to my own.” I ask them to listen to the many tales we have to tell of ghostly encounters and to reach out into the dark with their senses, staying open to the possibility that they, too, might have an encounter of their own.
Even if nothing happens, I believe the experience is worthwhile. Whenever we reach out with our senses open and our imagination engaged, we do make contact with some mysterious presence that lies deeper than intellectual understanding. And making that connection reawakens a sense of wonder.
That’s what I love most about leading the ghost tours at The Mount. Time and time again, I’ve seen visitors happily turn off their phones, forget the many distractions of daily life, suspend their disbelief, and walk with eager anticipation into the possibility of encountering something truly mystifying. I’ve seen people react with delight, even when genuinely spooked, as we pass the window through which a skeletal face has been seen or stand at the bottom of the attic stairs listening for faint footsteps. I believe the ghost tours at The Mount help to keep these stories alive and the imagination engaged. And they help to keep us open to a sense of mysterious possibility. All of this, I think, might very well have renewed Wharton’s faith in us moderns.
I also have it on good authority that the ghosts, too, are happy that we are telling their stories. “For,” as Wharton wrote, “the ghost should never be allowed to forget that his only chance of survival is in the tales of those who have encountered him.”
The Morning I Had To Leave
Ocean waves, morning birds
A sound as old as any memory we know
A young one goes pedaling onto the sand
And back again, quickly
This is his time
Early morning, new beginning
And I am searching, always searching
For the meaning in it
Just there, I placed myself
Inside the scene
But could I, just as easily
Have left myself out?
Let it all go by without
Me?
Notice and observe
See and describe
But not be here?
Could I not be here?
Could I write it but not know it?
Could I see it but not be it?
An invisible observer of the world
Or could I ride the waves?
Ocean waves, morning birds
Now another one goes walking
Up the boards
Onto the beach
Because his time has come
He is older; he stays
Longer
He knows more than the other
That you must stay to listen
If you want to hear
I'm still here
I don't know for how long
I don't remember when I came
But one thing I am sure of
The sea has been here longer
And after I have gone
It will certainly remain
Now, I hear the train
A sound as old as any memory we know
A young one goes pedaling onto the sand
And back again, quickly
This is his time
Early morning, new beginning
And I am searching, always searching
For the meaning in it
Just there, I placed myself
Inside the scene
But could I, just as easily
Have left myself out?
Let it all go by without
Me?
Notice and observe
See and describe
But not be here?
Could I not be here?
Could I write it but not know it?
Could I see it but not be it?
An invisible observer of the world
Or could I ride the waves?
Ocean waves, morning birds
Now another one goes walking
Up the boards
Onto the beach
Because his time has come
He is older; he stays
Longer
He knows more than the other
That you must stay to listen
If you want to hear
I'm still here
I don't know for how long
I don't remember when I came
But one thing I am sure of
The sea has been here longer
And after I have gone
It will certainly remain
Now, I hear the train
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