Sacred Water

I am told I must keep up the posting, so here goes.

I admit to feeling rather stressed lately. I have not taken enough time out for prayer, meditation, reflection, and, two months into the semester, this lack is beginning to wear on me. I seem to do little besides work and study, though occasionally I'll go out for supper with friends or take a hike in the mountains or bake zucchini bread. But I am feeling the need to structure such things as exercise, prayer, and writing into my day, and that has not yet happened. The longer I live (and granted, 26 years isn't really that long), the more I realize that this is a constant struggle.

On the other hand, I've enjoyed going out to the Old Post the past couple of nights to watch games 3 and 4 of the World Series, and I'm thrilled that the White Sox won! Though I woudn't have minded six or seven games--the Astros could have put up a little more of a fight, couldn't they have? At any rate, last night I was there with several friends from my environmental writing class, and we got into an involved discussion about the definition of "environmental" writing. I realized that, while I do dream of writing a book and publishing articles in magazines, I haven't done much, yet, to focus myself in that direction. When I write, I write things I feel need to be written--but they are more for me than for any outside audience. Another challenge.

But here's some more writing, since I know I need to be sharing my efforts with others. It's an excerpt from my second essay for my writing class.


Sacred Water

The most beautiful sea in which I’ve swam is at Moon Beach, a small resort on the shores of the Red Sea in Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula. Egypt, land of desert, heat, and sun—a land that knows and cherishes every drop of water, that guards with its craggy hills and harsh desert this slim sliver of sea. No palm trees, no sage brush, no superfluous vegetation, just sun and golden sand and red-brown rocky hills, and the sea,

the sea,

of the most exquisite blue-green you can imagine, turquoise water stretching out to touch a sapphire sky, with the horizon glittering between, and a caressing breeze to bring the water’s freshness to nose and mouth and lungs.

I splashed into that clear sea, calm but for a few wind-made ripples, and swam out, out, out—and then lay, effortlessly buoyant, and let the hot afternoon sunshine and warm perfect water lull me into a state of rest and salaam. Peace.

One night I abandoned my bungalow to sleep on the beach, pulling the thick wool blanket off my bed to wrap around me as I lay on a soft-cushioned beach chair. I woke several times during the night to see the stars luminous, glowing huge in the black sky above, to hear the waves singing softly with the rolling sand, to feel the tears sliding down my cheeks. When the sun rose early the next morning, sending golden light to reflect on the dawn-smooth sea, I sat on the cool sand, blanket tucked around me, and watched as a school of tiny silver fish flashed upward, leaping above the water, glittering like tossed coins.

My last swim in that water was a glorious baptism of water and light. Both skin and soul quenched their thirst as I swam half a kilometer out into the gulf. The sun shone down, the water buoyed me up, and my body was not light as air but light as water, and I felt myself become as transparent and fluid as the aquamarine sea. And my soul hovered on the surface of the deep.