Seaside of the Soul

The ebb and flow of the waves

Speaks to the spirit

Just as our blood flows

From the beat of our faint hearts 

so too this tide 

is driven by a celestial body 

whose effect, despite its distance 

shapes our coastlines. 

The sound of breaking waves

An echo of the blood surging

In our veins

A rhythm, ancient and powerful.

The first music to sooth our souls.

Earlier than the drum

Beating its unending rhythm.

The rocks are worn

Broken in parts.

Shaped by these waves.

Driven by the moon above.

We too are worked on

By this earth,

And yet orchestrated

From above.

What will this symphony produce?

Who will we become?

That is shaped by our nature

Granite or limestone.

By our condition

porous, sludge or crystalline.

By with whom we find ourselves

Shoulder to shoulder.

Or left alone to be polished or ground

Into shiny pebbles or gems.

But most of all

By our actions and deeds.

Gravity drives the tides

And this force requires

Our volition our movement.

Not until we take our first steps

Will confirmations shape us

and blessings flow

To grace our lives

and those around us.

We are the architects

of our own spiritual coastline.

Despite all these diverse powers

We alone will determine the result.

Home Alone

The last child has flown the nest

The emptiness is sudden.

Music has left our home

But also his mess.

To be fair he is now a man 

no longer a child

but it seems that just when

Conversations become illuminating and inspiring

Offspring migrate.

Thank God for Skype, email and text

They allow precious connection to continue

vicariously through the virtual world.

How many times do my sons take me by surprise

With their views and insights?

So much more capable in this world, than I.

Better equipped to manage this disintegrating system.

Made of stronger stuff entirely.

I watch them and try to learn from them

much needed survival skills, very late.

I learn humility is appropriate in parenting.

They are not works of art

that I can strut before

explaining their character and meaning. 

No, these are independent entities

who have found their own path.

They are of me 

but forged in climes and culture 

far from my own.

They look at this world differently,

And I have learned to respect their view 

is broader and more complete.

I was bred in a tiny village

High in the Sperrin mountains in Northern Ireland.

The road was impossible in winter. 

We had one grocery shop 

in our one street but over twenty pubs.

There were two communities, Catholic and Protestant.

I examined them both,

like an amateur anthropologist.

Alternatively, amused and angered at their antics.

An outsider whose only connection

With my communities was a deep conviction

That life had to be more than this.

Mean more than this.

I’m grateful for the regular discussions at home

On life, science, religion and the solar system

That swept around our family table.

My mother hated the heated debates

And tried to herd us to more quiet pastures.

But the arguments, the marshalled defences

the cut and thrust, blew like a healthy wind 

through our minds.

Making this table of discussion

Not village-sized but of the universe.

Shouting aloud, truth is the only community.

Being alive to everything in this world,

The only antidote to ignorance. 

Not knowing is when you’ve

chosen not to see with your own eyes. 

This changes what we are.

What we can be.

Everything we will become

Is there in that choice.

To remain like granite what we are now

Or to embrace the person we could be.

The difference between the two 

is simply light years apart.