And when I think of waves, I think of the marks they leave on the sand. Ocean waves do that. Waves rush in towards the shore. Waves recede. And a line is left behind, marking the end point of the particular wave. And this line, so distinct in separating the wet from the dry, relatively, is made for erasure. The next wave obliterates and replaces. New wave, new line. Another wave and this is gone too.
Fascinating.
Looking back I feel the poem ‘Dover Beach’ by Matthew Arnold lodged something in my mind that persuaded me to consider waves and lines. He wrote ‘of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling upon the high strand at their return.’ This reminded him of Sophocles hearing the very same roar on the Aegean and which brought to his mind ‘the turbid ebb and flow of human misery.’
Misery is not what comes to mind when I watch waves and notice the marks they leave on the sand. Rather, it is the vicissitudes of life. The highs and lows. Profit and loss. Moment of glory and moment of vilification. Joys and sorrows. Praise and blame. The waves: they rise and fall. They roar as they crash in but there’s not even a whimper as they recede. The lines they leave say ‘present’ but they are quickly ‘absented.’
How frail these lines are although so powerful are their makers! What marks then do the movers and shakers leave, what signatures of arrival and departure? Not everyone who rides a wave is a professional surfer. When waves collapse and perish upon inevitable shores they are left upon the sand, much like driftwood.
We are human and humanly frail. Being subject to the vicissitudes of the human condition we get excited at times by waves, especially those that are high and arrive with a roar. We are human and therefore remember. We can think back on all the waves we’ve ridden and ask ourselves where they are now, which oceans they move around in, upon which shores they break or, indeed, if they even exist in a way that we can identify them and say with conviction, ‘yes, THIS is THAT wave.’
We are human so we can take note of the lines left by receding waves. We might remember believing fervently that these lines were indelibly etched on a process or a social, economic and political geography, that they would surely bear upon futures. We might recall that things didn't exactly turn out that way. And then we can rush into the water in search of yet another wave that we think will change our fortunes for the better. And we do this often enough.
There are lines that can be drawn and which will take a lot of effort to erase. Such lines are not drawn on water, such marks are not left on sand. There are lines which appear and we know they should not be crossed. There are marks that arise and we know they cannot be ignored. There are moments that make us decide, ‘this, now, is what should be done.’ And then, most importantly, there are indelible truths as expounded by Siddhartha Gauthama the Buddha.
But we walk through unhappy streets, hoodwinked by a streetlamp and a thief, misled by profiteers who come wearing the garb of prophets, we laugh with comedians not realising that we are being laughed at, we sheer politicians who are really jeering at us.
We embrace lines in the sand and let wisdom slip through our fingers. Things are conditional and conditional things are impermanent. It is not advisable to read conditional as indelible and erasable as permanent. Perhaps this is something to think about on this Poson Poya day, which is when you would be reading this: there are waves and the marks they leave and we, upon the shore would do well to observe their respective movements.
Other articles in this series:
Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra
The right time, the right person
The silent equivalent of a thousand words
Crazy cousins are besties for life
The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis
Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins
Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness
Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable
Deveni: a priceless one-word koan
Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation
'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone
On sweeping close to one's feet
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
To be an island like the Roberts...
Debts that can never be repaid in full
An island which no flood can overwhelm
A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing
Heart dances that cannot be choreographed
Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember
Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal
It is good to be conscious of nudities
Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday
There's a one in a million and a one in ten
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
Hemantha Gunawardena's signature
Architectures of the demolished
The exotic lunacy of parting gifts
Who the heck do you think I am?
Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'
So how are things in Sri Lanka?
The sweetest three-letter poem
Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership
The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked
Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna
Awaiting arrivals unlike any other
Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles
Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth
The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara
Some play music, others listen
Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn
I am at Jaga Food, where are you?
On separating the missing from the disappeared
And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)
The circuitous logic of Tony Muller
Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'
Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist
Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses
Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced
Some stories are written on the covers themselves
A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature
Landcapes of gone-time and going-time
The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie
So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?
There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords
A song of terraced paddy fields
Of ants, bridges and possibilities
From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva
Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse
Who did not listen, who's not listening still?
If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain
The world is made for re-colouring
No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5
Visual cartographers and cartography
Ithaca from a long ago and right now
Lessons written in invisible ink
The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'
The interchangeability of light and darkness
Sisterhood: moments, just moments
Chess is my life and perhaps your too
Reflections on ownership and belonging
The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha
Signatures in the seasons of love
To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows
Fragrances that will not be bottled
Colours and textures of living heritage
Countries of the past, present and future
Books launched and not-yet-launched
The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains
Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace
The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville
Live and tell the tale as you will
Between struggle and cooperation
Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions
Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers
Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills
Serendipitous amber rules the world
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