Sorrow, quietly creeps into my chest, my throat, it moves in many unseen ways. As it comes, and it goes, I am the soaked, sandy beach, left laying there, either exposed, or engulfed by the rushing waves of the sea of sorrow. High tide, and sorrow swiftly covers me. Low tide, and I am left alone, sun-baked, brittle, vulnerable, dry. It is only in the roaring tide that I can cry. Rushing rippling waves, cresting, crashing into and over the soft sullen sand that is me. Drowning in the surf of sorrow, that was here yesterday, is here now, and promises to be here tomorrow.

As I lay at the foot of the ocean, a sorrowful beach, an enormous entity somehow out of reach, walked on, played with, relaxed upon, in the company of strangers, or left isolated and alone, my mind contemplates the tears of the spirit. Was it the sum total of all of the tears of humanity that amassed this ocean? Is there enough room on the face of the earth, is there a hole big enough to hold all of the tears of my sorrow?

Waves, whirling in the wind, out on the sea, the surface of all the sorrow, seen. Beneath the surface of the sea, currents pull one way, the other way, swirling emotions back and forth. So much life, in the center of the absence of life. So murky, yet so clear, the pain overwhelming the souls swimming with obedient-devotion whether far away from shore, or oh, so near. Nature at its most innocent, life quickly lost, without a hint. Brash, bold, heavy-handed giant whales breaking the plain of the surface of the ocean of sorrow, splashing-sadness: slashing the burdensome agonized air, and cracking chaotically within the home of helpless heartache. Having faithfully flown freely through the air, it is destiny that binds them to the sorrowful-joy, that is the ocean of life, and the ocean of death.

There is but one joy that sorrow contains, and that is the gift of grief. If nature knew not how to rain, and I knew not how to cry, the world would be so troubled and my soul would be so dry. Without the nurture of pain and sorrow of rain and tears, nothing would change, nothing would grow, except bitterness and fears. Life is a garden, and it has its season, death is but a stage in the play of the plant and only God truly knows the reason.

© 1996 A.J. Mahari

Grieving and Believing

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