Walking along the coast line, I stood and allowed myself the awe of gazing over the vastness that is the ocean, and I breathed in the salty air. With the sun in my eyes, I marveled at the glistening water below and noticed the thoughts arising, almost as if they were begging to be arranged into a poem. If I wrote poetry it would certainly have included those first words that came to me, something about how the light dances on the water.
But does the light dance? Not really. It just is. It’s steady. There is what dances in it. What reflects it. How it, whatever ‘it’ is, reflects the light.
And there was a feeling of home, and there formed a mental image of a door that leads to truth, and a vast world of words was desperately trying to organize those words into countless analogies that paint pictures of understanding or point to the truth of all that is. And all those words were inadequate.
The possibility of the ‘light dancing on water’ poem disappeared, and there was nothing left to say.