Regrettably Drifting

Whether it’s trough a storm of emotions, memories that haunt, instances that have been impossible to remove from the heart, through words leaving scars, tangled in arms that have healed, there is a slow and steady drift. Towards and away, ebb and flow, constant tug of war, unending circular motion through hurt and pain. Then you feel the pull, from left to right, to a monotonous beat, to melodious variations in different times and different places. Somewhere in this aimless drift there has got to be direction. To that notion you rest your weight on the stranger next to you. Darkness falls silently.

It began with an almost unnoticeable current: just a breeze that gently nudged the unsuspecting sailboat. Frail as it went out to sea, unable to keep its bearing, succumbing to the masterful pull of the moon. On that boat lay a hopeful life. Hopeful and unwise, facetious and careless in attending to the forceful wind. The ever drifting machinery, the means of success or a despicable end. As for a hunted prey, the fear is overtaken by rational and clear thought. To survive.

 

Amidst the calmness the seas may roar. The paths may be closed by ravenous vines hoping to see a soul fall. Feed no other need but the need of hunger, simple, complacent hunger. The spirit will follow. Each choice is then veered either this or that way. Beyond the control of any wind in sail.  Beyond that realm of possibility lies happenstance. Serene and serious, the way we have set sail to is north, by chance. Stumbled upon the guidance of those wiser before us, but ultimately unable to keep to the rhythm of their words. The dance catches the tender hearts, the beats throb through the skin and bones, the cage that protects the muscle and sinew. Then like a feather leaving on a journey with the winds, the dancers fall to the luscious rhythm of each promise unkept. The direction changes, the paths unwind, the good moon stays unmoved, the winds take the sails and head them a new way. Drifting, I wait.  

The night clears the day before of the harmful thoughts. Night pulls its veil over every error, every unkind word. Softens the ground on which the unforgiven will fall. Night quiets the cacophony of daylight deliverance. Merciful are the forces of nature, allow the memories to take place, to roam the heart and soul, to conjure images long gone, revive conversations long forgotten. For a moment the drifting halts. In that moment I find you, unchanged, still from the will that suspends the reach of time or space. We lock hands, pull each other closer. Just as I feel you our time is gone. The night is merciful or patient no longer. I drift further, let go of the old, seek new instead. Peace comes in many forms, some painful, some sacrificial, some unnoticed.

The slow and steady drift enters unseen. Shifting direction then holding still. Through gasping holes of sorrow. Through overflowing love. Through brittle and dry land. Through mazelike marshlands. Through the dying sun and the killing moon. Through each life lived unpained. Through forgiveness. Through grace. Through the unending beauty in letting go. Drifting slowly, drifting, fortunately.