Tack to Wind

Some analogies have a way of sticking with you even as you forget them, only to remember them anew years (even decades) later.

I love sailing even though I am not a sailor. I neither own a sailboat nor have I been on a sailboat more than a dozen times in my life. Even so, I believe in my heart beats a sailor. In the first moments I first boarded I felt something–someone–calling me. In those first steps onto the boat I was no longer There, I was Here. And Here I was not alone. But I only discovered who–Her–when I finally laid my hand on Her. It was only at the moment contact with the till–Her till–that I understand what She was trying to say to me. I felt Her. I heard Her. I even tasted Her. But I also instantly understood Her. As I stood there my eyes extended past Her bow and I felt the world dissolve itself into its primordial forms: Wind and Water and Sky; and, She and I were center to these three elements. I knew then that I loved Her more than anything before or after.

You do not simply make love to Her; She makes love to you on Her terms and Her time. And you must be content with that. She is always both before you and above you. She will talk to you in tight, crisp snaps of Her sails. She neither compromises herself to lay listless to the norms, nor play rogue by bullying Her way into the onrushing crowds. She leans into World and communicates Her contentment. If you are too shy, asking too little of Her then She pouts in deflated flamboyance. If you ignore Her limits which She always knows better than you, then She beckons to you to relent; a defiant shove of Her tiller. And when you find yourself flying along with Her, She holds your hand firmly, resolutely while Wind sings with Her their joy to be one with you.

But I also learned that She never goes directly to her destination along the simplest nor straightest path. Wind is of its own mind and so both are entangled in a weave across and through each other. You can only point for but a little awhile on any given course till you need to tack back. At any one moment, if anyone were to project forward your destination based where you were aimed they would be wrong; you never go with Her where you are aimed, for where you are headed is always somewhere else.

So is Life–my life. Now on my distant horizon rests solidly a lone, green Cedar Tree upon Snowy Mountain, red Sky of liberation descending into the reddish waters. It is where I am aimed, for I follow my love to Her. I follow my love with Her. But it is worth repeating: it is for now only where I am aimed; I know not where I am headed. But wherever I am headed I do I love Her. Always Her.

Always.

Author: Ward

I’m the creator and operator of this little corner of the internets, writing on all things related to art and more specifically my experiences trying to figure this whole thing out. I guess I’m trying to figure out life, too, but mostly I just post about art here. View all posts by Ward