The Aftermath

Tossed out to sea,

shaken and spun

without mercy

by raging wind and wave,

I no longer know

where I am.

All landmarks,

the familiar shores of my life,

are gone.

My skin is raw and red

licked by the rough, salty tongue

of grief.

Yet, I am still afloat,

barely.

My vessel is listing,

the sails are frayed,

like prayer flags on mountain passes,

only threads remain

of dreams once held so close.

The mast has snapped,

dead fish litter the decks,

though somehow the hull, the keel,

the ballast of this ship

is whole.

How long have I been sitting here,

with my back against the helm,

begging?

How long has lost

been flowing through my veins?

I’ve been spun around

so many times

I have no idea

where North is,

where center is,

where you are.

I crawl to the bow of the boat

feeling my way in the dark,

along guy wires and stays,

noting what is torn or missing or flailing.

The gentle breeze taunts me

with the possibility of yet another storm

I lay down on my belly

to still the spin.

Is it safe to rest?

Is it?

With an ear to the ocean

and arms outstretched,

my hand touches

the space where the anchor once was.

It too has slipped away

into the vast depths of the sea.

I close my eyes and listen.

We are here.

We are here.

We... all the beings of this watery wilderness...

are not lost.

We will carry you.

You are not alone,

You are not broken.

You are not lost.

Do not rush to return to shore.

Savor the fog, the silence, the rock

of the boat, the slice of light at dawn.

You will sail again.

When you become the canvas,

the rudder

and the anchor

for the life you are creating

you will sail again.