Study Leave II

I woke last night, in dark unrelieved by stray lights from street or passing cars. The sea’s low rumble, constant and then rhythmic lay under me. I roamed, poking in the dark, peaking out a curtained window and saw the moon rise. Less than half, it still cast a silver road down across the dark moving deep. I remembered my childhood, standing on the dunes with my sisters, wondering if I was careful enough could I travel it? And where would it take me? I felt my way back to bed and let the sea’s rhythm lead me out the silver road.



I woke hours later. It was less dark. Day was coming, rushing around the planet’s shoulder, but now only a glow. I bundled against the wind’s bite. ‘Cover your ears.’ It was always the cry when I went out into winter. And so with covered ears, I went out into the dim invitation of day.



The wreckage of the coast spoke silently of the storm’s fury. Bulwarks and jetties broken and moved, chunks of land bitten and chewed, some swallowed. I noticed stones standing out, obviously from some other beach or garden or foundation or road. But now they were here, cast like runes. I tried to read their message, but all it spoke of was my smallness. Perhaps that is enough.



A sea gull lay, cast down next to a bent bush, its wings still graceful in death. They are such miracles. No wonder De Vinci studied them. Beyond it was a pond, bordered in stones worn to smoothness, each a testament to the power of wind and water, transforming even stones. The ice was clear, undisturbed by wind. To be that clear perhaps it is necessary to be sheltered, perhaps.



Further, a tree, old, leaning, pushed by forces more powerful than its deep roots. It was still planted firmly, heaving the ground on one side, but holding on. One of its massive branches, formerly lifted toward the gull’s sky was now a pillar, helping the roots to hold the load of wind and weather. What had been a living prayer, reaching up and out had become a support. I stood there, my hand on the trunk considering the prayer life of a tree. And mingled mine with it. Adoration, receiving gratefully, reaching, surviving, holding on, carrying life’s loads with dignity, appreciating.



The sun came then, red into a clear sky.



It was time to find the kitchen. Sister Francis would be making oatmeal and perhaps scones. You don’t need to butter them, there’s more than enough already there.