Thursday, March 4, 2010

{part five to discovery}

A continuing story of my adventurous past....

Part V: Music of the Sea

~Music, the very soul of civilization. The heavens were born on the breath of the strumming chords of voices -singing, “Holy! Majesty! Mighty One!” stars were placed in their order, blossoms sprung from the wellsprings of bubbling fountains, life was born perfect, untouched, sacred in that secret place surrounded by never before seen beauty. She danced in the womb of the one who carried her. Danced in the excitement of the knowledge of the Creator who spoke life into that embryo of hope and promise.

Her voice, untouched by the ways of this world, found sweet moments singing to herself little tunes that became engraved within the chambers of her heart. Often times, such rapturous joy would flood her body. Joy that forced her mouth to become an instrument of harmony and quiet examination of nature. If it was not the sunshine then it was the little birds that taught her best.

Once, she was told that rocks could sing and seashells held secrets. She pressed her ear against their cold, hard exteriors -listening to the low, calming tones of echoes, paths and deep crashing symphonies of trenches, beaches and tides of travel. Oh, if only she could be the woman of the sea -draped in fine tendrils of sea weed, conch shells, ivory buttons, pearls so milky and soft and furs of strong hunters. She felt she had been born there, that woman of mist and sea. That lake so strong, so old and so foreboding.

Ghosts and legendary nymphs, titans of the seas, shrouded her with respectful distance. She claimed more than her depth, temperature and size but also lives, cargo, and hearts. She could hold you captive by her enticing shores, a booty call to any weary city slickers weakening resolve.

Looking over boat rails only made you imagine seeing skeletons of fading ships and echoing cries of Mayday. Lake Superior. Superior in all of maritime travel of the Great Lakes region. This lake, this small port town with all its idiosyncrasies and economic backgammon had a hold on her, one that kept drawing her back, time and time again. She claimed it was the music she could hear calling to her from the waves, matching the tones inherent in the formation of her heart.

Weather was like a game of croquet. Near misses, heavy knocks, and under silver arches clung blizzards, gale force winds, and the most distilled and peaceful calm. You could, and to this day never predict the needle of its true north or the exact reason for its raging tempers or soothing lullabies. Like a drunkard caught in the throws of its menacing portent, it desires to have and act in its own way denying its host of any say or reason -held captive by fermented passions.

This girl felt as though she held kin to this body of water. The fog horn bellowed soothingly to her soul, bringing with it comfort for weary travelers and often times her weary heart. Ships from every port both foreign and domestic found safe anchor within her harbor -unburdening their births of iron, coal and grain.

Ariel views of decorated steel held prized entrance through booming voices and beckoning horns. A bridge, known for its stalwart appearance and beauty, a once of a kind masterpiece, an engineering feight. It held together two lands. The mainland and the peninsula of natural dunes, light houses, and fishermen’s cottages.

Sandpipers, Blue Herons, and other maritime fowl gathered haphazardly along the shores, hunting for prime game in the juiciest of tiny morsels, leaving little webbed maps in damp sand. But it was the music from her depths that caused her to remain awake at night. There were also the dreams of that frightening dark water and the creatures within that would shake her breathless and leave her weary with thoughts. Quiet anchors, no more quiet then the constant incessant lapping of that sea in her heart. It was still, it was home and it held her destiny. ~

Picture courtesy of Canada Gallery


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