The Edge Again
Tacking Upwind
I follow a butterfly along the track.
The earth under my feet is parched from weeks of relentless sun, the fronds at the edge bleached blonde.
It is summer and there is nowhere to hide.
***
I am at the edge now.
It’s been a while since I’ve been here, at this particular edge. Gulls skate close to the surface, staking out a fishy bite, and then land in a throng, chattering and shrieking.
I’ve been at a different edge.
The boom of waves hitting rock face catches me.
Thud … thud … thud.
Do the rocks protest?
Ow, that hurts, as another wave slaps them face on.
***
Soft morning light, smudged horizon, clouds that hold the promise of a sprinkle.
Please let it rain.
I’m all dried out.
The upper world stole me away and stuffed me to the brim with tasks and jobs and lists and all of the things that life demands all at once.
***
A swallow tacks its way upwind, little wings flapping ten to the dozen, working so hard just to stay still. If I try harder, do better, work more, surely then I’ll get somewhere?
I haven’t long this morning.
I have places to be and a list of jobs that stretches out beyond the horizon. When I get there … I’ll be able to breathe.
***
I know, I know, I should know better.
Relief doesn’t exist over there, beyond the horizon. I can’t defer the need to rest until all the jobs are done. It’ll never happen.
I always thought I could outrun time, cheat the system.
If I just try hard enough, then they’ll love me for who I am.
Ouch.
That hurts like a wave slap.
Thud … thud … thud … go the granite defenses.
Go on, give me your best.
***
A dog barks on the other side, sharp, insistent.
I am attuned to these things these days …
scanning …
scanning …
scanning …
for all the sharp edges …
the fault lines.
***
Another swallow.
This one is riding the slipstream, surfing the wind to gain momentum.
It looks like fun.
It looks like ease.
***
I’m bored of my complaints now, and it’s time to go.
There are stories to tell, always a new chapter, a plot twist, a fresh take on old events. Frustration and discovery intertwine, weariness and urgency dance a tidal tango.
The edge is neither end nor beginning, but a meeting place. Who do I meet here at this edge?
Both and neither.
The wind shifts direction and still the swallow flies.