And a Star to Steer her by

As a child, when I would mention the ocean, and how I loved it, my mom would invariably chant, "I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky...."  I knew this was the first line of a poem- she seemed to always have available a first line of a poem to fit a situation. She almost never finished the poem, and it was always with delight that I would stumble upon the complete poem and feel a rush of familiarity, of childhood joy. This is an old friend, I would think, and reading the full poem was like climbing back into the willow tree in our front yard and munching apples while watching the red bugs march along the bark.


You never know what little aspects of who you are before others are flaking off, drifting into their souls, and becoming permanently a part of them too.  Knowing this, you would think I would be more careful about what flakes off, but ultimately, there is only so much I can be conscious of at any given moment. I wish I were more "other aware", that I could more consistently view the world through others' lenses, view my own actions as though I were standing beside me, not in me. The funny thing  is, as soon as I try to do that, I am no longer me, and the interaction feels false. It is like being forced to say ,"I'm sorry" or forced to kiss a relative you really don't want to kiss, and don't really even like.  Then all that flakes off of me is hypocrisy.

Martin Buber, the philosopher thought a great deal about this- you know the one that wrote the book "I and  Thou".  He also felt that the ability to love others and enter into true communion with them involved the ability to understand and empathize with them in such a way that we are completely "with them", and not with any preconditions of where that interaction may go, or even what use it might be to us.  Despite being a Zionist, a devout Jewish man who longed for and saw in his later life the establishment of a Jewish state, he lobbied for a Palestine state as well. He could look beyond his own very legitimate needs, and see the desires and needs of another that in many ways conflicted with his own goals and desires.  He truly believed that we could enter into a completely harmonious and deeply vulnerable, sharing relationship with others when we ceased to see them as objects of use, and saw them as precious fellow souls. He called that relationship "I-thou", and the ultimate "I-thou" relationship was with God.  He also admitted, as I so often have found, that as soon as one becomes too conscious of trying to "be", one ceases to "be" and becomes false, strained, and the interaction becomes one of "I-it".

I get this. I didn't when I first read Buber, but I get it now, at least a little. And it helps me to understand more fully why God just doesn't part heaven like Curtain #1, clap His hands and shout, "Ok, you scoffers, look and see! Now don't you have egg on your face? Here I am, as real as the blushing cheek on your faithless face. You better love me or behind curtain number 2 awaits someone not quite as merciful to your careless, faithless choices."

God enters into a relationship with us, longing for "I-thou", but we turn it into "I-it".  We long for God not for His Presence, but for His presents. And God knows better than to try to force us into a relationship. He waits, and tugs at our hearts which have gaping holes of longing and incompleteness.  I don't quite know what it means to be truly authentic in relating to others, but I know I long for it, and I have seen it. For brief periods, I have lived it. When my mother, hearing the word "seas", smiles at me and recites the line of a poem that she loves and only wishes that I might feel its magic too... and thirty years later I see the poem and think not of the ocean but of deep, abiding, unconditional love.

"Sea-Fever"

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).

1 Peter 4:7-9 (New International Version)

 ⁷ The end of all things is near. Therefore be alert and of sober mind so that you may pray. ⁸ Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.