Levels of Engagement
Morning the church and I am its congregation.
Solitary but not alone I worship.
I am a silent voice in the choir, my thoughts the clumsy punctuations of some universal prayer.
Winged creatures call, respond. They come to share my pew. Seagulls, ducks, a heron here, and there—far off still—a swan. Drifting is their only motion on a tide that waits to turn.
Together we come to rest. There is chatter in my head but it is stilled here at the edge of earth, at the edge of ocean, where the day is pooling at my feet. The sky is blue and blameless and the day is not yet made. Mistakes—as there will surely be—are far from shore. They will come in on the tide, but the water here is benevolent and no scent of judgement lingers.
I come to this place each morning to awaken to my life, to begin again the practice of being human. The night is for atonement, a silent process done by dreams, the success of it measured by the weight of the heart at dawn.
At this intersection lies the kindling of the day.
Potowomut—Land of Fires. The Narragansetts named it this, gave thanks for it, lit fires to the skies in grace. And I, long years and journeys later, I smolder and catch and come alive in its embers.
I come to watch the night tide turn, to witness the marvelous thing. Fold upon silken fold of indigo wetness hurled, unfurling on the sand, an endless, growing thing—waves working off each other, pushing and pulling and gaining ground, their roar growing loud and louder still to deafen the ears of the acolyte until abruptly—like a word caught in the throat, like anger spent or a laugh suspended—the roar subsides into a moan, a soughing, a sigh, and then a quiet comes down and strikes me as a thing that was here all along, submerged in my chatter and the sound of the surf.
I fall at the feet of the sky each morning, that I too might know what it is to sleep on the wing and open my eyes to the light without pause or fear.
I touch my fingers to the water and touch them back—dripping, frozen—to my temples. It is a liberty I take to baptize myself with this water. I kneel in the aftermath and breathe the silence—eyes closed, hands numb, heart beating. When I look up—Oh, the swan has come, her feathers unruffled, and I say then, aloud, god sent me a swan.
Is this the meaning of the masterpiece then, to cause me to stand and watch tomorrow come?
Morning the church, and one more day set forth.
—
Levels of Engagement - J. Van Gruisen, 2019
This piece appears at In Relation to the Sea - a multidisciplinary publishing platform featuring artists, writers, and thinkers engaged in discourse relating to the sea, also on Instagram @inrelationtothesea.
