Thursday, April 25, 2013
I come to this place, a pauper, searching the reeds and muddy weeds for something I think I lost. I’d not come here for years, and so the scars of the recent storm stand out in my mind against what I once saw, a corruption of memory that I ache over, but can do nothing to cure, giving my sympathy to the wild creatures that roam these waters, and who have endured the worst of the storm serge. The old adage about bending to the wind seemed apt here, where the fox tails wave in the breeze, even in those places where wooden planks had fallen to ruin, leaving no connection to platforms egrets now occupy, but no human. Far out from the shore, beyond where the gas line runs under a berm of green and brown, the mud flats start, but are covered this morning with a glistening water, while across the highway, the tops of Laurel Hill shows, closer than the haze would indicate, no distant mountain, but a mole hill. Nearer, with curved necks, swans dig small fish out of the muck, and spoil their illusion of beauty by having to do all that is necessary to stay alive in a world where nothing is clean for long, and that the true measure of virtue is staying alive and somehow remaining faithful to some vision only each creature sees. I draw from them power that I do not myself possess, walking along the berm, looking at the branches that are budding with new life, powerful message poking out at me as I search my soul for some sign that I have stayed true to my own vision, while somehow, hopeful in this wet world, we can help each other, draw strength from each other, when we cannot directly help each other. Somewhere deep under foot, under the surface of water and deep in the earth, there is a source of strength we all draw from together, and each time I come to places like this, and see everything that is struggling together, I feel it.