My life is a listening.On the ferry from Oban to Mull (June 16th)
His is a speaking.
My salvation is to hear and respond.
Castles, lighthouses, rocks broken down to sand, narrow roads and tipping boats to a soundtrack of voiced accents. Fog shrouds surround. This place has weight with its aged mystery. It could almost be home, be a jet from Anacortes to Shaw with all these grocery bags, but for the castle perched on the hill over there. But any place [every place] could almost be home. Even home is only almost there. When everything is unknown, there are too many sights to be taken in all at once. Camera shutter going click, clack, snap - capture these moments in your mind as well.
And we're blind to the gift of your greens and blues,
Help us remember and listen and know
That you do remain, just as tides always flow.
When you're sitting in sand, a stick works just as well as a pen. Inked words, all of a sudden, feel a little bit useless and a little bit too permanent. Because you will move us, and we have to be ready to change, shift, listen, and move as the waves and winds push and pull. We not are not called to a stagnation, to let the flies alight. Yes, a call to stillness, but stillness that leads to action.
Let me be moved: drag me in the tides of your will. First one way, then the opposite. Here I am.
This place is like therapy, she said. Out of the city, you're away from the things that distract you. You're forced to face up to things and actually think about them. What's important to you is made obvious. My heart resonates with this. All of the fluff and unimportance is stripped away and you're left staring at your life straight on. There's no hiding from your problems.
And that's what I needed. Me, with my tendency to bury what I'm feeling under layer after layer of silence and organizing and absence, under, 'no really, I'm fine,' under promise and sacrifice, under selfishness and bitterness.