Sitting here by the shoreline, watching dolphins slowly circle in their feeding and carefree children flirting with the surf, listening to the call of shore birds and the lapping of waves against the sand, smelling the fresh sea scented air mixed with a heavy dose of coconut scented sun block, tasting the salty essence of the gulf, and feeling the warm sun on my skin--
Here, where every sense gently drifts in the soft arms of our beautiful Mother who sings a loving lullaby, it is easy--easy to feel loved and caressed; easy to feel blessed, favored by the universe; easy to feel grateful and contented; easy to forget--
But, there, in the distance a siren sounds. Listen. That low, swirling wail is a reminder of what we forget too easily and too often.
The earth, so solid seeming beneath our feet, can lift and crack, split open and spew its molten innards. The gentle wave can turn, pulled back and sent forward in a mighty thrust like a crazed boxer beating a weak and weary opponent. The air, so light it feels like nothing, can charge with lightening bolts, leaving acres of smoke and ashes, an acrid stench of burnt pine pitch. The gentle breeze can begin to swirl and twist into a mighty wind storm, a vortex of destruction.
We, the children of a bipolar mother, we conjure vengeful gods and rules, both sacred and profane, to appease them. Is it any wonder? Has magic ever saved us? What we have truly forgotten is that we are not the favored of the universe. Our creations on this planet is no more important to Nature than her own.
And yet, a ghost crab skitters across the sand, making it safely to its sandy tunnel. The siren fades. A child shrieks with delight as a foamy wave washes over her bare toes