Breaking ocean waves are the soundtrack of potentiality. They’re the white noise of the planet. They’re terrestrial 2 a.m. TV, awaiting programming to begin. Along with wind, waves never stop talking. Always they whisper to one another, to anyone who will listen. Always they tell stories. Always they create.
But it’s not the waves that make the 2 a.m. noise. It’s actually the sound of drops cheering. More on this later.
My line of sight hovers above waves and celebratory oceanic drops and then zooms off towards the edge of the planet. I find that all my sight is contained during the day. We have enough to think about already, I guess. So, sight has to stop at the point where the insistent ocean meets the edge of the sky. I’m trying to punch through this point with my eyes. I want to break through what I see, into the eternity that I can only feel with my heart.
But try as I might, I am contained here. For this moment, I am in this plane. I have to stay here. It’s because I’ve learned to define my reality with my eyes, primarily. But because that reality is limited by them, I live suspended in partial truth, like a drop of water above a breaking wave. We all do.
In a couple of hours, however, the stars will arrive. They’re cosmic locksmiths with the ability to open any frozen soul that longs for ever increasing expanse.
God had this same view, once. Once, God waited; waited for the moment when the white noise could be shaped, and the wind tamed, and the stars to come out. This place is the land of dreams. This is where creation makes her home. This is where we all find ourselves to be God.
In the distance, I see two birds flying together. There is no distance now because, by virtue of my perception, they’re also in my mind. I have them now, white, sailing buoyant in the moist and fertile air, in my brain. They are both the manifestation of Creator and Creator themselves, for there is a measure of choice in their flight. They’re friends, aren’t they? See? Their wingtips are almost touching.
They, like me, are drops made manifest by the collapse of some wave.
The water of the ocean herself, there are drops within her. But they hide, bound together until released by the sun-star around which this planet dances. Or by the wind that can’t help but speak. Or when water is thrown against a beach with force, egg cracking, force releasing. With any of these catalysts, the drops themselves laugh at their brief being and the soundtrack of their own potentiality, released from the One for just this instant.
And for a moment, they are separate, wave and drop. They are separate entities, just this once. Drop becomes white bird. Drop becomes observer. Drop is partial reality… separate.
For this moment only.
And then, laughing, they and we are reabsorbed into the white noise.
And we can see into eternity again, because we are eternity.