“Island Time”, once again.
It’s luscious, it’s delicious, it’s a place to slip the senses into the tissues of time.
There are certain Fragrant Wishes that we water our pores with: Late Afternoon August Sun, the smell of seaweed; the gentle clamor of a peaceful evening tide; distant gulls, ferry horns a million miles wide in foggy blue forever.
Sun is sweet on the skin. We are onions and we peel away our layers as the bright orb in blessed Blue Blanket bathes our Solar Plexus once again in Dusty Gold, Shimmering Velvet of the Moment. Ocean winds carry delights. Dead crabs and live seaweed are all part of the Perfume. We bathe in the gentle quiet of the lapping waves. Boats with no names bob at anchor. Everything – every little thing – in creation’s core is happy and content at this very moment.
We listen and talk to the Stones. They are the Old Gentlemen of the Harbor. They were there long, long, long before any of our famous Roman Chariots graced the streets. Timeless things, solid and sturdy. You rest upon them; they tell no lies. Change comes slowly. Rough edges are pounded clean by patient oceans in the twinkling of a million-year day. We love and caress their boundaries, their orifices, their curves.
We have a hard time remembering Christmas; these Rocks remember Creation. Something about the Space-They-Occupy: the Tableau of Creation’s Elements. The meeting-place of Land, Sand, Water, Sky & Sun. It’s all there. We’re made of all that stuff. The elements outside of us, are also the elements inside of us. Do we know now why people love the Beach? Worship the Sun? Anoint themselves in Waves?
It is a re-union with the Lost Minerals of Bones, of Blood, of Breath. Interesting. Mandatory.
We seek Balance. In everything we are; in everything we do. But – as it stands – we are precariously unbalanced. People, neighbors, lovers, societies, nations, planets. We stand poised for war, not soaked in peace. We stand separate, disconnected, strangers to our brothers – a land of marginalized hobo’s. Transient Vandals. Gypsies with no violin.
And who will undo this anesthesia of the soul? This forgetfulness of the very purpose, the seed, the core, the essence: of human life. Who will remember what it is to be human – underneath the layers of cement, the obligation, the mandatory and mundane cruelty of the norm. Who will dare to live, to breathe life, to dance and celebrate Certainty … in the midst of the Ugly Shopping Malls of day-to-day living?
We are held in the Arms of Something Vast and Protective. Something we postulate and theorize about and “believe in”. This is not our neighbor, this is not our dog, this is not Friday Night at the Movies, this is the crux of who we are and what breathes us on the Inside. This is to be Known, not to be Hoped-For.
This is the helping hand of the Divine, clear point of awareness, Marching Drum of the Dance Going Home.
This Vast Stone, Giant Hand, Wholesome Heart, Melting Sun, Not-Too-Distant-Star … is what Rumi talked about when he said this:
” I will set you on my breath, so you will become my life”.