The tide

In response to Peace, a poem by Sarah Teasdale

Time is the tide of life! It relentlessly flows to the sea that carries us finally away. The young find it natural to stand at the shore and, like King Canute, imbued with the confidence of youth, challenge and defy the power of the tide. Later in life, however, elders find it easier, less emotionally taxing, to recognise that the tide has a buoyant quality. Some give themselves to it, accept its support and to go comfortably with its forward flow. It's as if they've issued their own Do Not Resuscitate Notices! For some others, such passivity is not the preferred option and they use their declining strength to swim against the tide, to resist its surge, regardless of the inevitable consequences. They deem it wise to think it's more socially productive to use their energy in this way, to make their presence count. Personally, having floated on calm waters and also been tossed about by wild waves, I know that I'd rather drown resisting turbulence than passively drift out of sight.

The Tide. The temporary tide inside her organic structure her non stagnant structure. Outside of her body, her permanent body. No chance for reflection, or reflection to be revered, for too brief a life do the speckled prisms exist. There is no honor given to the partner of her soul, the sole source of her strength and beauty. Only the unobtainable secrets within her forever changing hue are a clue to their connection. More so the frothy fingers play with the ground, as if recalling the days when the dirt was subdued. All the emotion of longing expressed in her stroking, grabbing, slamming, scratching, licking and caressing, the lover part lost is the lover desired and the constant lover denied. Unfaithful charm, secrets withheld, indestructable virtues, mastered by choice, and by will it would seem. but this was a lie.

Tide of feelings

Tide of words

Tide of images, memories flowing through my mind. Images of past, images of future. Never present.

Who will I be in a few year's time?

The tide, my tide. The tide of darkness closing in, touching my shores, covering up the sand until my feet disappear and I don't know where to go, how to leave. The tide of dark thoughts crawling up my legs, scratching my belly.

Close your eyes. Don't breathe. Count to 10. It will be all over. All you have to do it wait it out. You know this by now. You SHOULD know.

10...9...8...7... The darkness is receding.

6...5...4... My feet are drying and I begin to walk.

I walk towards the black water like a child following her mother's voice, familiar sounds, that familiar place. I seek it and reject it at the same time. I fear it and welcome it. I know it like the back of my hand. I know myself.

3...2...1 and the tide is out.

Blackness lingers far into the distance, like an immovable island, a dark thought at the back of my mind. A sad memory. Memory of the person I am always going to be.

We all go through life wanting to change, trying to be better. I think the truth is that we simply become different versions of the person we were always meant to be. That lonely child who was never able to connect and make friends, she's still here with me. That angry teenager who kicked and wanted to be normal and coloured her face too brightly to cover up the dullness, she's in here too. The self-conscious me, the frightened me, the scary me, the doormat, the clown, the pleaser, the insecure, the depressed. They're all in here, maddening, taking turns, thankfully.

So which one am I going to be tomorrow?

The sun is out. I can open my eyes. So much to see. So much to live for. Until next time.

Who knows what comes in on each next wave? Discarded debris flung high or temporary deposits soon to be reclaimed. And what is taken away, dragged back to the lair of the sea? The lure of the yank and the spill; the rhythm, ever changing, ever the same. Stormy tides throwing me up and pulling me down, tossing me about in a sea of wildness. Snatching at the wildness in me, trying to reach those taut places and pummelling them until they snap, and loose free into the seamless flow. Sail flapping in the wind, still tethered in part, straining at the restraint or grateful for the grounding to rigidity. I spend so much time trying to understand the nature of my mind; to comprehend the restraints, the limits, the cavernous depths; to come to some conclusion as to whether it is okay or not. I do not roam freely in my own mind. But what’s the point of judging the sea, as too much this and not enough that. It is what it is. But few people reproach the sea, place expectations and demands upon it, wish it other than it was. Perhaps the sailor caught in a storm for a time but even then may appreciate the grandeur, accept one’s own insignificance in the face of immensity. I think though of my mother who is rarely satisfied; the weather is awful, terrible, dreadful l today, and I think would she accept the sea? Does she? I see her walking along the pebbles at Brighton, and she says how wonderful it is to live by the sea but does she even look at it, head down, talking of the wind, too cold, too blowy, too strong, okay today but I should have seen it yesterday. She firmly believes she enjoys the sea walks and so she must in some way, but from the outside it is hard to see it. I hear her words but am left in doubt. She comes near then pulls away, leaving discords in her wake that I struggle to fathom, puzzle to make sense of, these random pieces of her that seem to me not to be what she tells me they are. And always they are left there, un-reclaimed, scorched by hot suns and saturated by dense rains, shifted here or there by insistent winds, worn down into ever smaller fragments.