23 January, 2003

Falling Walls, Cracked Soul

The wall fell. It was a wall of protection, a dyke to hold back the ocean of chaos. A sea wall to keep the ocean at bay while I swam in its murky waters and dove to find the sources of the murk. It was a solid barrier between the sea and me, between the ever changing tidal pools and the examiner of those depths. The wall was my means of transportation from one bay to the next, the pathway that made easy my travels from one chaotic crisis to the next.

The wall fell. A sea wall stands only if there is adequate support on the dry side, only if there is enough counter pressure to hold the wall against the sea. The importance of the wall is it the separation it provides between ocean and safety, between chaos and order, between my work and my feelings.

The wall fell. There was no support on the back side. No counter pressure upon which I could brace myself. I fought with all I had to hold back the wall, but I could not do it alone, without the support of those who have helped in the past. I turned to the sea to uphold me, to lift me from the floodwaters. I rested upon its waves, and was embraced by that which I’d always remained withdrawn and unattached.

The wall fell. It wasn’t an intentional taking down of the wall. It just tumbled down and the floodgates opened. The sea has flowed into my pathway, my safety. The waters have marked my very being. I’ve grown accustomed to the buoyancy it offers. Dare I say it? I have grown to love the water – the very response the wall was assembled to thwart.

The wall fell. But the cycle of the tide does not stop; the water must recede from the shore. So now begins the painful work to separate the sea and the land. Now begins the anguish of removal.

The tide rescinds. A new wall must be built. And I dread the separation. I loathe the approaching anguish.

This has been my reason for this wall. It keeps out the pain of separation. It holds a bay my falling in love with the sea. I am at once longing for the wall and dreading the separation. Torn, tattered, branches flowing away with the tide, I wonder if I’ll ever want to swim in the depths again.