The Sea

THE SEA

Down the road a short distance the sea is crashing breakers.

I hear the soft rhythmic roar telling of a distant menace.

We live close enough to the beach to feel the breeze and smell it.

On a hot night it cools the house like a ghostly visitor.

Dark beams exude the odor of sand, old wood a salt fragrance.

Fish and shrimp, squid and snails are the gifts of our brooding neighbor.

We toss them in garlic and soy sauce, shaking them inside the pan.

We serve them steaming, feasting until our stomachs smile.

But in the blackness I cannot be safe enough to call the ocean friend.

He harbors in his belly gigantic aliens and swallows sailors alive.

I hold a match to a kerosene lamp to illumine scroll columns and chairs.

I gaze at the flickering yellow flame, warming within myself.

No one can control this behemoth, this restless surging animal.

If only I could capture this water and leash it to a post.

Originally published in Boston Poetry Magazine (September 4, 2014)

View of the Pacific Ocean from Batan island, Philippines

The Mountain

THE MOUNTAIN

Climbing is like lifting a weight, hand over hand, using a pulley. Marathoner in a trance, you ascend rapidly as time slows to near motionlessness.

Trees rustle, rice husks pushing back and forth to dry. Desiccated brush, smallish bundles, tumble downward, roll about. Bamboo thickets, agitated brooms, shiver.

Dislodged by your feet, tiny stones hurtle, soaring arcs increasing in velocity downhill, click-clacking glass marbles knocking together, gradually fading, scattering into silence.

At this height air is rarefied fire. Atop the mountain birds hover overhead, transfixed by the sun more brilliant than a sorcerer’s spell, flanked by clouds, bright balls of electricity.

Strong gusts sand your face roughly, a stone. The wind is cold, the eye of an ascetic just returned from a visit to the dead, fiercely gazing, an eagle clutching a small animal.

The vast plain below mirrors the sky, wet paddies flashing crystal polygons, jewelry turning side to side. Far into the distance, short hills squat, huge emerald droplets, whilst the river, a glittering bracelet, empties into an ocean of light.

Breathless, you are a broken wheel on the wayside. You will climb the mountain again, spellbound by the expenditure of controlled energy, delighted by the sting of sharp gravel underfoot.

Originally published in Eastlit (September 1, 2014)

Mount Makiling, Laguna, Philippines

Silence

Original context of The Lake:

SILENCE

“If a jar of wine is left in place a long time, the wine in it becomes clear, settled and fragrant. But if it is moved about, the wine becomes turbid and dull, tainted throughout by the lees. So you, too, should stay in the same place and you will find how greatly this benefits you.”—Evagrius Ponticus [1]

The Desert Fathers and Mothers had a word for it—hesychia. Silence. Stillness. In its most compelling metaphor it is a limpid body of water recollected in a state of tranquility. In this state the soul is able to see itself as in an undisturbed reflection and to sense the touch of God when it alights upon the surface. In the silence of prayer the soul is a perfectly placid lake:

In autumn chill I sat at the edge of a deep blue lake.

It was placid as the stillness of the moon in solitary space.

Silently as if stirred by the slightest briefest breath,

Perfect circles in a series broke the surface, moving outward.

I watched the widening whorl travel to the edge then bounce back.

Something—or someone—had touched the water.

Maybe it was a bird dipping down or a fish twitching its tail.

Maybe a dry leaf riding a draught had made a splash landing.

When the waves had spent their energy, the lake becalmed again.

It shone purely, a polished mirror of the sky: blue to blue.

I felt the cold wet air rise but did not hear the wind swirl.

I waited for one hour and the surface stayed serene.

If you were to visit the New York Adirondacks in the chill after Labor Day, you would find no visitors at the edge of the clear blue lakes, which manifest a rich stillness. Gaze on the surface and you will see your image wavering ever so slightly but unbroken. In this delicate equilibrium the undetected aspects of the soul are discovered. Dip your finger in the water and you will view ripples in serenely widening arcs across the surface, even to the distant margins. Silence is this quality of the lake that is awakened by God's gentle touch and just as at Bethesda (John 5:2-3), you would have to hasten to the water to receive the grace offered to you.

God is found in the sacrament of silence. The story of the revelation of God to Elijah (1 Kings 19:11-13) is worth calling to mind:

“Then the Lord said, ‘Go outside and stand on the mountain before the Lord; the Lord will be passing by.’ A strong and heavy wind was rending the mountains and crushing rocks before the Lord—but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake—but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake there was fire—but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire there was a tiny whispering sound. When he heard this, Elijah hid his face in his cloak and went and stood at the entrance of the cave.”

In silence we see our own soul and hear the voice of God, supernatural abilities that are entirely beyond our natural powers.

There is a famous story of an anonymous Desert Father who asks his two companions to pour water into a basin and look at their reflection when it has stilled. “Thus it is with the man who dwells with other men,” he says, “for by reason of the disturbance caused by the affairs of the world he cannot see his sins; but if he lives in the peace and quietness of the desert he is able to see God clearly.” [2]

“We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness,” says Mother Teresa of Calcutta. “See how nature, the trees, the flowers and the grass grow in perfect silence. God is the friend of silence. His language is silence. And He requires us to be silent in order to discover Him. We need, therefore, silence to be alone with God, to speak to Him, to listen to Him, and to ponder His words deep in our hearts.” [3]

Silence holds out to us the promise, in which we may place our confidence, of participating in the mysterious life of God: “The fruit that silence brings is known to him who has experienced it. In the early stages of our Carthusian life we may find silence a burden; however, if we are faithful, there will gradually be born within us of our silence itself something, that will draw us on to still greater silence.” (Statutes 4.2)

Notes

[1] The Philokalia: The Complete Text, Volume 1, translated by E. Kadloubovsky and G. E. H. Palmer (London: Faber and Faber, 1979), p. 35.

[2] The Paradise of the Holy Fathers, translated by E. A. Wallis Budge, Volume 2 (Seattle: St. Nectarios Press, 1984), pp. 319-320.

The cited text does not refer to the story precisely or the exact words, but rather alludes to source text with basically the same meaning: “Then through the tranquillity of mind…in silent contemplation, he will remember his sins, and when he…hath cleansed his heart from odious thoughts, then shall he be worthy to see in his heart, even as in a polished mirror, the light of the revelation of our Lord.”

[3] The Practice of Silence and Solitude, Opus Sanctorum Angelorum: Work of the Holy Angels (June 2000), retrieved on August 7, 2003 from http://www.opusangelorum.org/oa_spirituality/six_traits_docs/Silenceandsolitude.html

Other versions of Mother Teresa’s words exist, for example, in Mother Teresa, The Joy in Loving: A Guide to Daily Living (2000), page 228: “We need to find God and God cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature—trees and flowers and grass—grow in silence. See the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence. The more we receive in silent prayer, the more we can give in our active life.”

Published in Brew Your Best Year (September 9, 2014), an online publication of The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf

A longer version of this essay was published in Magis: Official Publication of the Magis Deo Community, Volume XV, Number 11 (December 2003), page 3.

To Gaze and Wonder (2007) by Nicolas Beattie

The Lake

THE LAKE

In autumn chill I sat at the edge of a deep blue lake.

It was placid as the stillness of the moon in solitary space.

Silently as if stirred by the slightest briefest breath,

Perfect circles in a series broke the surface, moving outward.

I watched the widening whorl travel to the edge then bounce back.

Something—or someone—had touched the water.

Maybe it was a bird dipping down or a fish twitching its tail.

Maybe a dry leaf riding a draught had made a splash landing.

When the waves had spent their energy, the lake becalmed again.

It shone purely, a polished mirror of the sky: blue to blue.

I felt the cold wet air rise but did not hear the wind swirl.

I waited for one hour and the surface stayed serene.

Originally published in Brew Your Best Year (September 9, 2014), an online publication of The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf

Lake George (1869) by John Frederick Kensett