The Magic of the Night.

Posted by admin - 06/05/14 at 08:05 am

A thousand tiny stars blink above me as I cross the boardwalk.
To my right and left wild sea oats dance in the breeze, scratching at the night sky.
I glance down the beach and watch a pale wafer of a moon blink behind a wandering cloud.
3 AM, a time for druids and fairies and magical musings.

Angry breakers race in from afar, like columns of white, frothy armies storming ashore in endless succession.
I consider going out on my kayak.
“I could do it,” I tell myself. “What’s the worse that could happen—I get tumbled by a wave?”

Yeah, right.
In that moment I knew that I lied.
To ride the sea in the dark I would have to face my own fear, confront my own mortality and challenge the terror that would ensue from one renegade wall of black water crashing over me—the awe, the panic, the frightful notion that I might not surface or that the tide could sweep me out into the deep, a place where swells crash over troughs, a place where I would tumble in my life jacket like a tiny, bobbing cork.
Not a chance.

Instead, I sit, drink in the damp air, let the wind chill me.
The constant drone of churning surf helps still my mind.
I stare into the void above the waves and sort through runaway ideas, try to distinguish between truth and fantasy, vagaries and realities, conclude that the lines blur far more often than we want to acknowledge, so much of our lives governed by perception, outlook or the way our spouse or child looks at us on the way out the door—a fragile, delicate balance.

The search for meaning, a tireless quest that has plagued us since our origins, the blank gaze at the horizon, the reason to climb another peak or sail another ocean, start a new relationship or run from an old one.
The ageless, answerless questions drive us to seek refuge in distraction and convert those expert at distracting into heroes and celebrities.
Seems awfully backward.

The biting gusts find their way under my skin.
I stand, make my way back, listen to the swishing and swooshing of crushed quartz under my toes.
The quiet speaks volumes when we listen.
One last look and I turn for home, lost in contemplation yet aware of a contentment that only inner reflection can birth.

A sudden, wet, frigid blast from a sprinkler washes the reverie into a crevice where it will hide patiently until next time.
I smile, skip the stream on its next go around and keep walking.

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