A Flowing Movement
Water is inherently pure. Embodying most of human and earth,
It allows our existence to endure. Depths of souls and seas
Left far too long obscure. Fearing what lurks beneath we are left unsure,
And yet still captivated by its lure. Water has always been,
Since earth was formed and within man since he was born.
A philosopher, scholar, teacher, and student, always fertile
In the natural world. No less considerable in mankind,
Always our intuitive guide, our purposeful journey,
Though she may seem old and worn. She knows all,
For she has seen the deep. Just as she basks under the sun in a dance
Of ebb and flow, to the shore she may creep. Likelier still,
With hazardous winds, choppy waters, and rough currents abound,
On the rocks she may leap. Above or below, or pushed and pulled
By tide in between, the truth she holds she forever keeps.
It is up to us to see, if we wish to become who we were meant to be.
This liquid life is the forgotten key that bridges the gap
Not so effortlessly. A shapeless gateway, it lies amidst the surface
And a world hidden far, far beneath. Aware and watchful
Only of what floats on top, only of what washes on to the shores,
Only of what crashes on the rocks. A realm of sentient awareness
Over which we claim control, an illusion that only mocks.
Our visceral guide courses these breadcrumbs to the shallow.
Follow them to the water bottoms. It is there, in the darkness of the depths,
That there are sunken treasures to unlock. Yet there
They will too often remain; unknown, undiscovered, untapped.
It is fear of the unknown that ironically keeps us from diving into
This deep reservoir of knowing. The submerged psyche,
It is our truest home. A world apart now we are, yet in times of antiquity
Long ago, so much of what existed above, after many moons, fell below.
Humanity followed suit, over generations, and as a collective group.
During creation, when born, and in the innocence of the first years, we hold
Our own inner truth so very dear. Sooner for some, later for others,
Perhaps never for the oh so lucky ones, we drift from that unique
Piece of self and in walks the fear. No matter how stalwart, we separate,
Much the same as mighty tectonic plates. Worry for earthquakes
And volcanic eruptions now take the stage, such is a metaphor
For our fate. Perhaps in acceptance there is a better way.
For it is never too late. In the coldest, nethermost regions
Of the oceans and seas, the vastness of the unmapped
Trenches, abysses, and more are obscene. Can you
Imagine the artifacts, relics, wisdom, lore, and dreams.
Like an iceberg, the expanse underneath is the core that holds
And the heart that beats. The design of a human being so much the same,
The unchartered waters of heart, soul, and mind grip facets,
Secrets, worlds, and purpose that we may never hope to find.
Not as a species, or even an individual defined. Yet to begin
Is to try, start with self, self becomes selves, becomes communities, becomes
Opportunity for discovered wealth. As it bobs up and down,
We drift and cling aimlessly to a breadcrumb found, not wanting to leave
The surface for deeper ground. The purposeful waters provide
A fragile raft. What does it hold for you? Read between the lines
And listen without a sound. Learn what you must, then let go
Of the fear, release with trust and you will sink, but you will not drown.
We travel down in the arms of the waters to then find the way back up,
Now transformed. Having weathered the storm, who we are now
Is our reward. So quick we are to dig holes, and bury our oysters that
Wash gently, or even violently on to our shores. We even tuck them away
In our secret coves, for we know the narrow entrance ways
Make them hard to explore, like a hidden grove. Out of sight
And out of mind, is not the way to go. Do not fear the past,
Its lessons offer hope. Dig them up, pull them out,
And face them, for if you do not it is a slippery slope. Forgive others,
And even more so yourself, the tragedies, failures, regrets,
And disappointments that we all gather along the way.
No man or women, nor parcel of the natural world is left unscathed.
Your waters force them upon you, begging of you to truly see.
If you do not, illusion of self is all that remains. What sorrow lies in
Unknowingly living such a contained and uncreative fate.
Oh, what other could have been, if we only had the strength
To let the knowing waters guide the way.
The expedition of what lies beneath is fraught with danger. The possibilities and gifts attained along the way lay in never underestimating and always respecting the voice birthed from within. — Lord Byron’s ode to the watery depths in stanzas 178-184 towards the end of his work Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage is further representation of coming to terms with the immortality and power of the fluid life existing within both nature and humanity.
My article, Admitting You Are a Work in Progress, is the perfect supplemental read to A Flowing Movement. Reviewing this post will gift you many meaningful perspectives surrounding accountability in regard to your individual analysis of this poem and the guidance it has to offer as you embrace an honest journey towards continued self-discovery and enlightenment.
