Driftwood

I pull back on time, tug at it like a sailor wrestling with a stubborn anchor. I hand-over-hand. My knuckles wobble and threaten to bust loose from their thin blanket of skin. But fathom by fathom, I bring it back to the surface.

Sand and seashells and saltwater scatter on the stern. I sort through them all, all the things I missed. A green glass bottle, worn soft by the waves and the wind, holds a message. The distress call is four years old.

I did not know then who I was writing to. I did not know that I was writing to myself. And I did not know that by writing here, what I thought would become practice, would actually become prayer.

 

 

Christine Mandich captured the shot above.

Comments

[Kim]

I find great comfort in knowing you ask the same question over and over again. I do too. If I'm in a negative mood I think of this as one note writing :) But when I'm optimistic, I recognize that these questions are primal things, probably not ever meant to bear the weight of answers.

Prayers are the same, I think. Hope and repetition and echo. Big questions, answers all weird and cryptic. I like this idea, even though I'm a heathen.

[Dragonfly]

Blessed when one has hope and is open to their heart.

[babs]

VERY cool observation: "what I thought would become practice, would actually become prayer."

I do believe that by writing, we are throwing our hats into the ring and letting the universe know what we are here... and we are looking...

[InkyTwig]

It does become a prayer. Writing in all actuality is for ourself. Our inner voice telling us what we need to hear but sometimes don't want to hear. Love this as always.