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I stood on the rocks, on the very farthest point away from the land. The wind slapped my hair into
my face and then pulled it away again, to fly off my shoulders and twist and dance behind me. The
salt sea made my face sting and all my skin was sensitive to the touch of the air as it passed. The
water was everywhere, calm and yet writhing, soft and still, wild and alive - each drop fighting against
the rocks and leaping up to kiss my toes in an ecstasy of movement. All was Sound. A total experience
of movement and touch and sound of the sea: the wet rocks rough under my bare feet threatening
blood; the clouds hanging all about me like grey sails escorting out the last gold of sunlight; the moon
high and softly smiling in a purple crystal light; the water screaming, throwing itself towards me on the
shore, green and wild and beautiful. The touch of a grain of sand riding on the exhilarating wind and
grazing my cheek. The majesty, always, of the wind in the evening.
As I stood on the prow, my back to the shore, my face showed no emotion, an empty page. My arms crossed over my chest - a fragile shield, my gaze on the horizon. Beneath the frail cover of muscle and blood, my heart repeated over and over a searing pattern, first exploding, and then crumbling, tearing away as the land disappeared and the Spirit wind pulled me further and further from my home. Yet I faced my home. Where was I going? Wherever I was led. And so, as I stood brimming wholly with tears, I held the hand of the all-knowing wind and exulted in an unknown future. My feet, yet unsteady on the great sea's gentle stirring, longed to dance on new ground. My heart, yet but a wisp, unready to give up the old or face the new, still to be conquered. Joyful and aching, singing and crying, striving to follow.
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