The same view of Provincetown harbor which was full of promise and hope yesterday, is now dark and gray.  Blanketed with rain overnight, the harbor is like my heart and mind, cold and heavy this morning. Such is my battle. Gazing out at Provincetown harbor one notices the effects of the tidal flow, in or out, up or down, deep or shallow.  The boats moored into that sandy bottom usually stand at attention, like little soldiers at a boy’s military academy, accentuating the stiffness trying to appear tougher than they are.  The boats float facing in one direction, their mooring lines taught with the current.  This morning however, the various boats, from twin engine Grady Whites, to sleek wooden sailing vessels, are lazily swinging around their tether, rolling with the tide, the force of the current sending the vessels every which way, one right, then left, circling endlessly. I’ve never noticed that before, and I’ve peered through this bay window framing the harbor view, like so many gallery canvases on Commercial Street, for many years. Perhaps it’s just that this morning I understand this view, I see what is happening and like a mirror, it reflects back to me this image of discord, this image of trying to find one’s place, a direction anchored solidly, a life pointing firmly forward, and safely harbored.

Rolling to and fro with every wind of change, unable to get out of my own way, unable to find my way, I’m rolling, rolling, back and forth, desperate, uneasy, and longing. One sunrise and one sunset ago I sat in this same spot, the sun warming my face, just bright enough to make the corner of my eyes crinkle up, a shimmer of hope welling up in me like the glimmering diamonds of early morning sun sprinkled on the water. Can’t blame it on hormones. These boats and this harbor, ever changing, will settle into place, a few hours of lolling back and forth.   Eventually the boats will give in to the tidal flow and once again straighten into place with the certainty of the current.  A daily ritual is this scene, ebb and flow. Perhaps there is a moment of clarity in all this ruminating.  The boats float aimlessly for a brief period all the while anchored solidly.  They are not adrift, nor straining against their tether. Faith anchors me, the only certainty amidst my changing tides.  I have to allow my tether to ascend, to pull me upwards.  Nautical anchors sink to the bottom, and hold tight.  My journey is like the boats in the harbor, eventually finding their place.  Maybe like the changing tides, I am finding my way, step by step, solidly anchored upward.

Observing this harbor view and receiving solace through the creative endeavor of writing, the blows of longing have softened. Just now the sky is lightening from the dark pall of the overnight, to a brighter sky and the first rays of hope.