Migration

There are times when it is alright not to know. You just keep going steadily forward when the only sound coming back to you is your own heart churning into the void: that engine that beats warmth and strength and pulse into your ocean blood and is powered by a spark that comes from you know not where.

From the void you came and into it you’ll go. You find the current at last and instead of fighting it you follow it go with it, surf it. It’s not a path you can see; the sky changes, the tide goes out, the wind comes up. Remains only the steady rumbling in your ears, the call of your heart to the sea.

Life is immense and must be explored; and then again, life is helplessly fragile every watery breath perhaps your last. How absolutely transcendent! How perfectly ordinary! Surely the gods were drunk on salmon and wild berries when they made life and everything in it.

Your heart is taking you onward, into the night feeling its way through cold, rain, tidal energy, wind and legend, to the place where you can smell black spruce and the cold bellies of fish. When the sun comes it will find you drying out on a wide white beach or drifting long and wet-haired in the tide or sleeping cradled in driftwood branches. Many journeys it took to get back to the exact place where you began but that is the way to come home: you find you were right there all along.