A woman held
the sea inside her, magnificent. Alone, she looked down through its fathoms
with secret smiles. She knew the shining silver of its smooth, unbroken skin, its
reflections ever faithful. Her fingers tapped in rhythm with its pulse. In its
gentle rolling she saw her own strength, for she had subdued its tides; she had
drawn its energy together, focused into a column that rose straight and
unshaken from her depths to her heights. Her pull eclipsed the moon’s.
The twilight
on the water shimmered from her eyes. Those who chose to look closely
regarded it with wonder. She knew all this, yet she thought it no great thing
to hold the sea.
A tiny cut
appeared on her chest one day, mysteriously, as small wounds sometimes do. It
was hardly worth a thought, so small was it, but when she put her fingers there
she felt a tickle of cool air drawing through, and, fascinated, she left her
hand caressing it all day.
In the
morning the cut had widened slightly. She stared at it in the mirror for a long
time, her eyes squinted into slits, to make some sense of it. The enticing curiosity
of the thing sparkled in her mind. That night she lay awake and still,
listening to the breath of the ocean whistling gently in and out of her skin.
The third
day came, and the cut was now a tear, wider and longer than before. It did not
bleed or weep; all that came from it was moonlight and air and the sound of the
water. It occurred to her that she should be afraid of this tear in her chest –
that surely it presented some danger to her – but she could not bring herself
to fear it. Always, always, she had viewed the sea from within. The vision of
her own light spilling out into the world was so intoxicating that all anxiety
retreated before it.
On the
fourth day, and for many days after, she woke with increasing anticipation,
hurrying to the mirror to see what had changed during the night. She ran her
fingers gingerly over the raw, red flesh at its edges, tender and damp with
stinging, salty spray. The breeze that now blew briskly through invigorated all
her senses.
The days
passed quickly when she was torn open. She surrendered to the new unknown of
each moment, until past and future slouched away unheeded. She became doubly,
triply alive, a manifestation of the most wonderful beauty. People drew near to
bask in the fresh boldness spilling out of her, the strange brilliance in whose
rays they felt themselves magnified, emboldened. She laughed, and every ripple
of her laughter resounded with the glory of the waves.
It was the
sun now, not the moon, that reflected off the water, dancing vibrantly across
the crests and gleaming in the foam. Wide open to the world, the sea rejoiced,
and the woman loved it more deeply than ever she had when it was contained.
She didn’t
consider, enraptured as she was by joy, what foam on the crests might signify.
Perhaps
exposing it to the light of others had given the sea a force it hadn’t had
before.
Perhaps she had
begun to underestimate the sea’s great energy, taking for granted her own power
in keeping it at bay.
Perhaps a
sea isn’t meant to be trained.
For whatever
reason, the tides had slipped free. The waves ceased their gentle rolling and rose
to clap together in loud applause. Drunk with freedom, their glee mounted to abandon.
The sea crashed into itself and away again, each collision feeding the next,
until its rhythmic thrum dissolved into a wild, heady tumult.
At first,
the woman tried to ignore the commotion. The sun still shone, after all. She
held tight to her all-consuming joy, convinced that no ill could come of such a
treasure. And yet she began to feel the prick of doubt. To assuage it, she
thought to steal a glance inside as she always used to do. But the perch from
which she once could view her fathoms to the floor was now a dizzying,
terrifying height. She didn’t wish to see. Instead, she trained her gaze more
sharply on the light she threw before her, until the red spots of its echoes burned
behind her eyes.
Still, she
knew she was eroding. The incessant roaring stole her sleep and confounded her
every thought, and the thunder of the waves beating against her shook the
ground on which she stood until fissures began to appear around her feet. The
sea leapt like a lion hungry for meat. Its unknowable momentum swept her body
in courses she couldn’t foresee; she lurched into streets and dark places, and
those people who had sought her out were buffeted and bruised by her careening.
It was rumored someone drowned inside.
Something
had to be done.
The woman set
down her joy and took up her courage. She found a needle, long
and sharp, and a cord too strong to sever, and with half her will holding the
other half captive, she began to sew shut the wound that let the light out. Her
hands trembled on the needle as she thrust it in her chest, drawing tight the
cord to once more bind the sea. The fearsome, frenzied waves struck at her as
she sewed, but she held fast. Their roaring din diminished stitch by searing
stitch. The glow around her dimmed until the last pass blocked its final rays,
leaving it to peek once more through her eyes alone, now red with weeping.
When it was
done, she looked down into the horrible face of the sea and began her long
work of calling back the calm.
I knew her,
this woman, when her waters danced in the sun. Through her chest I felt the
ocean’s breath upon my fingers. I memorized her light, and I draw from it still
when I cannot find my way. If I had my wish, the frolicsome sea would shine forever
in her chest, there to share with anyone she chose. But that wouldn’t be an
ending. Endings have a way of calling us to account.
I hope she
has reclaimed her calm. And I hope there is brightness there as well, in the
magnificent place where she is.
