The years merge and the iridescence of the glazes, the floating specks of oxide, remind me of the beauty of freedom, its unsurpassed power to take me to a place of unending possibilities. There is a knife edge on which I teeter on the brink of falling towards the despair of not having achieved something powerful I once encountered or towards letting go of what never was nor could be. Enjoying what is and can be. Despairing of what was taken away. Weeping for the loss. They tell me much of the curious colours of dawn on the Ionian Sea, when beheld from the heights of Aetna. I recall vividly instead, the glass green transparencies of sunsets on the Pacific Coast of Guatemala, devoured by the lava grey sand and blasted by the waves. The beach there was so steep that we had the whole vastness of the Pacific, from its abysmal guts to its savage fangs storming against the very foundations of our being. We put on a brave face and sipped cocktails, but the destruction was even then inching into the underbelly of a house on skittery stilts. Fate starring us in the face, taking my mind away to the stars and the grains of sand, counted one by one into the deep. And my fingers reaching and dipping into the green light, the grey dust, the honeyed mud and trailing behind the boat. Egrets fly past. They dash through the mangrove leaving behind a smudge of white on the deep luxury of green wetness, the gnarled tendrils of the trees, the soupy caramel warm water; I look at the children, their eyes lit already by the scintillating suns of regrets and worries, though so young, so innocent. I couldn't help them to a cheery clearing of the brow: I, too deeply ensnared myself in the lamentations of a lost past. The years merge. Like a fresco on the wall, I see the images morph as I move along the corridor of time and read the outcomes of long lost days and ways and decisions and wishes. It is good at least to know that sometimes I was right. It is nice to see that I did fight as much as I could for those things that in the end I didn't get. See the smudged darkness in those fish-trees of the teapot? They say to me that there were brighter times and they remind me that darkness has its purpose and its end. But accepting and resigned? I don't think so. I can only say that one way and another, in the end my heart has healed, not because I have given up, but because I insisted. In the end that small hurt and damaged heart has itself joined the rest of my inner being in a restful place because I managed to get enough of what I needed to receive - just enough - to make it all right not to have more. Halcyon seasons, solstice of my days by the Ionian Sea was not to be. Instead the raging of the Pacific tested me - and the glorious gift of my children, all four of them, instead. Who knows?...
0 Comments
|
Archives
April 2024
Categories
|