I walked along the windswept beach, while a dense fog hovered beyond
the breakers, a barrier to this in-between place of water
meeting land, land
meeting water. A fine
mist coated the boulders and trees, made the chilled
air heavy and dull. The cliffs behind me, scarred here, there,
a warning of
their dynamic quest for equilibrium. I was alone and pondering faith,
and stooped to pick up a rock, the size of my fist. It was weighty, solid, grey
granite, fit perfectly in my hand, comfort in my palm. Its smoothness proof
of the tenacity of wave and water. Keep
trying, I read in this gospel etched in stone,
Some things take time,
whispered the waves. Endure.
I watched the waves as
they worked, doing what they were meant to do. I stood, still, in this borderland,
this convergence of worlds, and listened. I held the cool stone, the grey sky melding
with the mist, and thought of the changing lunar face
pulling on this water from
afar, like lost love.
But not until my head was quiet, the static of my thoughts calm -
then I heard them singing, those rocks, still rising and
falling in the surf, their turmoil
a symphony of faith.
Singing, tumbling like joyful pups, falling over themselves again
and again, their essence revealed by the exhilaration of
their existence. I kissed the
stone and left it on the beach, in the arched hollow where
it had been placed by the
force of tides, redeemed, for now - respite among the grains we are slowly becoming.