Levels of Engagement - J. Van Gruisen
Levels of Engagement
J. Van Gruisen 2019
Morning the church and I am its congregation.
Solitary but not alone I worship.
I am a silent voice in the choir, my thoughts the clumsy punctuations of some universal prayer.
Winged creatures call, respond. They come to share my floating pew: seagulls, ducks, a heron here, and there—far off still—a swan. Drifting is their only motion on a tide that waits to turn.
Together we come to rest. There is chatter in my head but it is stilled here at the edge of earth, at the edge of morning, where a day is pooling at my feet. I am wronged by the remains of yesterday, but the sky is blue and blameless and the day is not yet made. Mistakes—as there will surely be—are far from shore. They will come in on the turning of the tide. But the water here is neutral and nonattached and no scent of judgement lingers.
I come to this place each dawn to awaken to my life, to begin again the practice of being human. The night is for atonement, a silent process done by dreams, the success of it measured by the weight of the heart at dawn.
At this intersection lies the kindling of the day.
Potowomut: Land of Fires. The Narragansetts named it this, gave thanks for it, lit fires to the skies in grace. And I, long years and journeys later, I smolder and catch and come alive in their embers.
I come to watch the night tide turn, to witness the marvelous thing—fold upon silken fold of indigo wetness—hurled, unfurling on the sand: an endless, growing thing—waves working off each other, pushing and pulling and gaining ground. A roar grows loud and louder still to deafen the ears of the acolyte until abruptly—like a word caught in the throat, like anger spent or a laugh suspended, their roar subsides into a moan, a soughing, a sigh. A quiet comes down and strikes me as a thing that was here all along, submerged in my chatter and the sound of the surf.
I fall at the feet of the sky each morning, that I too might know some day what it is to sleep on the wing and open my eyes to the light, without pause for hesitation or fear.
I touch my fingers to the water and touch them back—dripping and frozen—to my temples. It is a liberty I take, to baptize myself with this water. I kneel in the aftermath and breathe the silence—eyes closed, hands numb, heart beating. When I look up, Oh! the swan has come, her feathers unruffled, and I say then, aloud, god sent me a swan!
Is this the meaning of the masterpiece then, to cause me to stand and watch tomorrow come?
Morning the church, and one more day set forth.
Biography
J. Van Gruisen is a writer and poet from England and The Netherlands who has lived in Newport, Rhode Island since 1990. She writes from the intersection of human interaction with the natural world, exploring the countless levels of engagement that this invites. She travels extensively, has taught yoga in Antarctica and India, and loves to entice fledgling writers into a passionate affair with words.
Contact
@jvangruisen
jvangruisen@me.com