A time when there are no more words
So I’ve picked “beach combing” as a prompt for the impromptu writing exercise. Have stumbled across a writers’ festival in Stanley Park – hear a children’s storyteller shrieking joyfully to my right; a man on another stage thanking people for the opportunity to be heard—he starts his reading with an Incan invocation—has survived the Spanish Inquisition.
“Listen, you who abide in the Ocean In the Sky.” Reminds me how much we all long to be heard—long for a listener—when beach combing—see how cleverly I return to the topic?—when beach-combing, I find myself listening to the ocean inside, waves lapping gently or cracking relentlessly and then to the sweet relief of the water flowing – knowing the Earth will survive, in all its beauty, long after my petty problems have been put to rest.
There’s a crow hopping towards me – another lifts off, crosses the flight path of a white seagull’s outstretched wings. I realize I, too, am dressed today in black and white, but inside am singing green and inspired by the peaceful gathering of people around me—biking, talking, relaxing, listening to each other—then—WAR—we are also Canada—a nation sending our young sons to Afghanistan—to kill “insurgents”—read Afghan citizens who will not tow the Western line. It is hard to hold this newly-budding optimism with the seeming obliviousness to that horror being carried out—in our names, with our tax dollars, and the blood of our people and the terror they bring to a distant country—this is a war about oil—not about compassion. When will we take the responsibility to live our principles? Democracy is not about invading others for our gain.
Sometimes there comes a time when there are no more words.