I am standing on pristine sand within a sea cave, a sea cathedral. Monoliths and pinnacles of dark rock rise around me, leading the eye up and up into the open sky. There is a small doorway into this sanctuary and a small doorway out of it. These doorways have been carved by the sea. Soon the water will rush through them again, drowning this place where I stand.
Here huge stones catch the wind, muting it, giving it voice, soft and haunting as the calling of mourning doves at twilight. It mixes with the surging crash of the sea. This music is both ethereal and earthy, like ballads sung by ancient birds when the earth was young. It haunts and thrills and whispers. It stirs in our veins, rhythms that go back before forgetfulness, back to First things when such songs were sacred. Our bodies ache to answer, for bodies have their own memories and their own hungers, their own ways of knowing and remembering. They echo a moment, a shadowy grace granted by blood’s antiquity.
Also by John Noland
Sea Riddles and Doorways