Listen and Soothe

Grave stones overlooking the ocean.

The waves are lyrical.

They crash. They pound. They ebb and flow and build and recede and stir and settle.

You can see from the path, one carved not by purpose but by time, leads us all to the ocean. Visitors traverse the steps we have taken. Our souls gravitate regularly toward the ocean’s rhythms that beat life back into our skeletons, air back into our bodies.

The path is not straight. It zigs and zags. It moves and bends to step over friends. The path is a sign of respect from the living to the dead. It leads not directly to the ocean, of course, as we are on a high cliffside. The path leads instead to those two benches. What was that poem? Two paths diverge in the woods, and I took the one less traveled? Sometimes my spirit stirs in the night, tracing the human-made trail and taking a seat.

I can’t see the ocean all that well. That’s my gravestone there in the bottom left, felled by time, energy, and pressure. I can no longer perch on top of it to gather my thoughts. And frankly, it feels rude to pop a squat on a neighbor's stone, so I float along to the benches. Sometimes the right, sometimes the left. My choice usually mirrors what side of my brain I want to engage or quiet.

I watched the woman take this photo. She stood in the grass unafraid. Undaunted. She seemed carefree. I was sure she would walk down the path, with its lines and ridges etched so clearly. I almost urged her to. I rustled the tall grass. The blades meant as arrows pointing her way. But she merely stood, inhaled, and moved along after snapping the photo with her phone. I venture a guess she didn’t even see what was right in front of her.

We rarely do. I know in life I missed some of those signs. Those moments pointing me toward a choice. I either ignored them, missed them, or tuned them out. Sure, I took chances. I took leaps of faith. I had a successful career in my Scottish town. I was active in church - I mean, how else do you think I landed this primo burial spot on a cliff overlooking the ocean? That was not the work of the devil I assure you.

But sometimes when you are deep in the moments, you miss the vision. Again, poetry reminds us about seeing the forest through the trees. Or is that one a proverb? For this woman on this perfectly sunny and amazingly rare clear day, the path was right there. Yet she missed it. Maybe that was on purpose. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe her time kept her chugging along to something else. What if she stopped and saw it? What would have happened had she sat on my benches? Would her soul have found the same calm as mine? Would she have stepped off to read my fallen stone, learned a bit about me?

The elements are wearing away the text on my stone. My story. Each day I fade a bit more. The path and the ocean act as my anchors. If I listen closely enough, I can conjure memories of my mother’s laughter and my father’s stern tone during our family trips to the beach below. I can hear myself squeal with delight as seagulls stole my fish and chips. I can taste the fear when I was dying alone.

So, this path, this meandering in the grass is a tether to joy. It brings me back to times that were simpler, happier, calmer. My soul stirs, and I go. I listen to the ocean, I soothe with its sound.