I’m alone on the beach, but for a thousand driftwood friends, some reasonably good throwing rocks, and a cigar for rumination.
I’m sitting on an ancient bleached log, blowing Nicaraguan smoke over the Juan de Fuca Strait, worrying about earthquakes, hurricanes and nuclear war. (The word worry, by the way, is a mash-up of some old English and German meaning to ‘strangle’, or ‘seize by the throat and tear’.)
I would have made a terrible Buddhist (as it is, I fail the bar of half-assed Christian), so attached am I to suffering the-anticipated; fretting some feverish future. (You can catch my act, a gloomy Billy Bragg singing: Way over yonder in the dimming gr…een, ain’t nobody that can fret like me, ain’t nobody that can fret like me.)
To fix this I decide that worry is a form of prayer: so here I am, in solidarity with the rest of the world’s worriers, storming the gates of tomorrow, preveniently seizing, strangling, worrying peace-on-earth into being…
and sitting in this fragrant acrid cloud
I watch the light play on the waves
and like some augur of old
for a sign:
perhaps some solicitous sand crab
to move my parked imagination
into the bright eelgrass of presence
so hold to my heart
peace as a possibility.