Breathing Underwater
The following poem was written by Carol Bialock and comes from Sheila Cassidy's remarkable book Sharing the Darkness.
I built my house by the sea.
Not on the sands, mind you,
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.
A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.
Good neighbours.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences,
respectful, keeping our distance
but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.
Always the fence of sand our barrier,
always the sand between.
And then one day
(and I still don't know how it happened)
The sea came.
Without warning.
Without welcome even.
Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine,
less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight, and I thought of drowning, and I thought of death.
But while I thought, the sea crept higher till it reached my door.
And I knew that there was neither flight nor death nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling you stoop being good neighbours,
Well acquainted, friendly from a distance neighbours.
And you give your house for a coral castle
And you learn to breathe under water.
Sheila Cassidy writes of her coming to grips with the passage ...
Now the curious thing is that all the time I was in Chile I understood the sea in this poem as an image of the presence of God - the way he takes over our lives. When I showed it to a monk friend, however, he saw the slow advance of the sea as the gradual encroachment of the agony of the world upon one's consciousness. It is only now, ten years on, that I begin to understand what he meant when he said that the great mystery is that the two are really the same.
I built my house by the sea.
Not on the sands, mind you,
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.
A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.
Good neighbours.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences,
respectful, keeping our distance
but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.
Always the fence of sand our barrier,
always the sand between.
And then one day
(and I still don't know how it happened)
The sea came.
Without warning.
Without welcome even.
Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine,
less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight, and I thought of drowning, and I thought of death.
But while I thought, the sea crept higher till it reached my door.
And I knew that there was neither flight nor death nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling you stoop being good neighbours,
Well acquainted, friendly from a distance neighbours.
And you give your house for a coral castle
And you learn to breathe under water.
Sheila Cassidy writes of her coming to grips with the passage ...
Now the curious thing is that all the time I was in Chile I understood the sea in this poem as an image of the presence of God - the way he takes over our lives. When I showed it to a monk friend, however, he saw the slow advance of the sea as the gradual encroachment of the agony of the world upon one's consciousness. It is only now, ten years on, that I begin to understand what he meant when he said that the great mystery is that the two are really the same.
posted by Jeff at 5:16 pm
3 Comments:
Why is it so much easier to sense the crucified God that the resurrected one? Coming to grips with the world's agony seems messy and real, while at times the hope can seem so fake. Is it just that we've been sold a lie and now the truth is hard but honest? (to suddenly realise that hope is not in a can from the supermarket, but only on the far side of despair)
Perhaps its learning to stop long enough to sense the hope in something as simple as a cup of coffee and a conversation.
I love your question. Not sure about an answer!!
Surely the gospels speak the same story. The ressurection seems mysteriously veiled, a time when hope is disguised.
I would like to think that hope is not so much on the far side of despair but travels with us just as mysteriously as those early days of the ressurection.
Still not sure about an answer!!
Fernwood Press is releasing Carol's collection that includes this poem on her 90th birthday - June 28, 2019. I'd love to share a pdf with you by email
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