This past week I was greeted by a line. A vivid pink line. I marveled at it, thinking it reminded me of something, although “the what” escaped me. And yet, I kept observing, because I kept thinking of “crossing a line”. We cross so many lines in our lives, and seldom do we contemplate why. At least that’s me.
I turned away for a few minutes, and when I returned to keep observing, I was greeted with a different image altogether. Gone was the line and the pink. Instead, there was a silvery sun with its silvery reflection. It is times like these that I wish I were an artist, and could capture the beauty of a sunrise like this one.
Sea, sun, sky and a straight line. Crossing a line. I always think about my family and friends and acquaintances who are no longer here. Someone once said to me that I was “tetric” (meaning gloomy). Well, it is a common word in Spanish, and we used to use it in school in English, when I was growing up. It turns out that apparently, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, it is an obsolete word that has been out of common usage since 1810 or so. Go figure! I still use it, so, baloney.
And then it hit me, my tetrical self. The crossing of that line: a meditation on death! A boat, the sea, the light, the tides, the sand. And yes, the crossing of the bar.
CROSSING THE BAR
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
Dum Spiro Spero 