Meditation

The bosun tunes the rig, adjusting our posture as we prepare to sit. In fact, he has already begun – I see it in the way he holds his knife. He climbs the ratlins with eyes upturned, for he is in his church. His hands test tendons, preparing them for what he will ask of them. Hold steady now, he says with a light touch to each stay and shackle. Come to life with the wind, he tells them, all without saying a word.

In the engine room, the alchemist wanders with a wrench, coaxing the vascular system to life. His hands have memorized the valves to turn, his ears tuned to the symphony that only he understands. He too, has already begun, I can see it in the way he breathes. The alchemist transforms:  fuel into miles, water into wine, a desert ocean into a home for forty souls. In the process, he himself is transformed.

The cook wakes before dawn. He pours black coffee into a ceylon mug and exhales. He knows the knife, the heat, the salt, the oil. He feeds us all, rich cakes and fruit with lime and sweet baked beans, and then begins to paint. When he paints with spices and colors, he is timeless. 

The scientist scoops up life by the handful and holds it up to the light. She is our eyes. She peers through a microscope and sees herself in a multitude of forms. Phosphorescent, delicate, carnivorous, dying – who is the observer, who is the observed? 

Finally, we sit still. The wind is the breath in my mouth. The ocean’s blood runs down the deck and through our veins. My body is a sail, flotsam in a storm, a wave that has no end.