walking in two worlds

the turquoise threshold

Photo by Ivan Bandura on Unsplash

I paddled out to sea at sunset bringing my slightly reluctant but very attached daughter into the immersive magic that is the light of the ocean at dusk.

(Somewhere salt water pours out from the hands of holy women.)

I paddled and paddled, far out into the ocean, until the sound of the waves overcame the latino dance music blasting from the shore.

(Somewhere a woman waters her tulips.)

I pulled my long white skirt up my thighs and dipped both feet into the living being that is water. We floated for a moment, allowing the current to rock the kayak. I started to sing, but

the notes were all wrong: too many mountain and canyon and desert notes to resonate with the expansive consciousness that is the sea and the life that swims in her depths.

(Somewhere a child leaps into a pond, measuring her worth among the reeds.)

Finally, I surrendered to a single high frequency tone that connected me to the sky. Holding the frequency, I began paddling, watching as my daughter’s perceptive eyes fixed intently on the soft white cliffs along the seashore.

The tone at last dropped and landed in the sea and into my paddle, now dripping salt water down my wrists and arms and ribs. The melody leaked from my lips like an origin story born of water and salt. My daughter stared at me. Amazingly, she didn’t tell me to stop.

(The child emerges, with a frog in her hands.)

The old ocean song came alive in rhythm with the waves and seemed to have no cultural flavor except aquatic. It came from some place still hidden beneath the coral and kelp, rocking like an old wooden sea canoe.

I began paddling back to shore, against the wind, singing this old melody amidst the roaring engines, dance music, floating plastic and hoards of people. Nearing the shallow waters, closing in on the smell of beer and fried food, I was suddenly -

in two worlds.

In one world, I was paddling alone to an empty beach, in the creation time.

In the other, I was navigating through the maze of people in the water, towards the cigarette littered beach, where towels and sunscreen and round bellies lined the sand.

As my daughter and I reached the shore, the two worlds continued.

In one, I was walking the quiet shore alone, barefoot among the crashing foam and setting sun, walking towards a small glowing fire in the distance.

In the other, the dogs were barking, money was being exchanged, pot bought and sold, couples caressing in the dark water. I walked towards the vendor-filled street, through rivers of impressive cologne and sparkling women.

(Somewhere a portal woman walks on water.)

As we arrived home, to our small, two story cement apartment with flourescent lighting and aluminum cook pots, there I was, still and also in the rising moonlight, inside a small thatch roofed hut near the forest, tending to the cooking fire on the soft sand, with my barefeet and baskets and my beautiful daughter.

The rhythm of the sea can be traced in the soft edges of seaglass.

✧ ✧ Thank you for reading this edition of Wild Leaf. This journey through Substack, what began as a hobby and now is transforming into purpose, is showing me the depths of dimensionality that can be reached when we really, really, really actually, jump through the threshold. This is a poem and true story, reflective of the many inner processes that accompany self-reclamation. If you like what you read, push the ❤️ at the bottom here or consider upgrading your subscription. You can also Buy Me A Coffee. ✧ ✧