Waders and bitterns shy away into the reedy beds, and the salt water comes to mix death with life as is the case everywhere on land. What you find when you look into the sodium shallows, murky with nightmares, may challenge you, may frighten you out of your wits, but it must be faced, if you are to skirt this place and continue your journey.
For this is a betweening place, a not-sea, not-land minefield of slow rushes and long rough. A place for sinking not standing, to be passed through and never built on, unless you are a fool or a bird happy in a house made of straw. Everything here is washed away over and over, tide after tide, and the cries of migrants call harsh on the wind.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com
Not neatly in a line, singly spaced on a clean beach, waiting for the clichéd response. Not theologically twee and comforting, suffering castrated of its messy, birthing dance steps, but instead, dog’s feet, running through mud, splattering sods everywhere and all about. Paws at full pelt, eyes on the ball, not caring about dirt or the inevitability of B. A. T. H. s to come later but completely alive, here in the now, mastering mucky mindfulness. Sinking only for a moment, splayed across the surface, connected to the earth, but skating across it. Leaving our marks and knowing that when God walks alongside us, his dusty, bleeding feet make tracks beside, before, behind, above and below ours. Not one set of footprints, but seven holy treads, Emmanuel on the way to Emmaus.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016