CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE<\/p>\n
I have been to the Conclave–a gathering of the greatest<\/p>\n
minds on earth–and none of those minds were of man. None of<\/p>\n
those who were present has ever walked the shores of the waters of<\/p>\n
life, nor have any of them ever envied those who do.<\/p>\n
I have been with Harmony. I have argued my case before a<\/p>\n
tribunal so bizarre, so beautiful, that is beyond simple description.<\/p>\n
The night is not bright, but well-lit nonetheless, in this early<\/p>\n
northern fall. Cotton-gauze clouds filter the half-moon light as I<\/p>\n
walk my silent walk.<\/p>\n
Mercury waves slip and slide like long, twisty snakes, hissing<\/p>\n
up and down the pebbled shore. The air, cool and crisp, bites at<\/p>\n
my cheeks and explodes into silver vapor streamers as I exhale my<\/p>\n
breath long-held. This is Alaska September; fall in a place of early<\/p>\n
hard winter.<\/p>\n
I look back to where the gravely shore refuses to mark my<\/p>\n
passing with lingering boot prints. It is as if I were placed where I<\/p>\n
am coming from–nowhere–having nowhere to go.<\/p>\n
I am now of the Song of the Sea, for I have heard it sung.<\/p>\n
I am the one in billions of humankind who must try to teach the<\/p>\n
others to sing. Should I fail to do so, man will earn the punishment<\/p>\n
he has so freely passed on to others . . . extinction. Like my boot<\/p>\n
prints, we will leave no trace on the jagged edge of the dryside near<\/p>\n
the waters of life.<\/p>\n
I am the wrong with ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD.<\/p>\n
I am sandwalker, called Sharing by the brethren of the song who<\/p>\n
taught me to listen.<\/p>\n
Sharing – a name given to me late in life by those creatures I<\/p>\n
have come to love.<\/p>\n
Sharing – an odd name for one who really hasn\u2019t shared at<\/p>\n
all. Only now have I begun to learn that life is a precious gift. It<\/p>\n
requires, even demands, that lives be spent giving back the gift to<\/p>\n
ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD,<\/p>\n
Shamed am I–knowing now what I know–penitent for the<\/p>\n
wrongs that my fellow creatures and I have committed against the sea.<\/p>\n
I am sandwalker . . . the creatures given so much in the beginning.<\/p>\n
I am sandwalker . . . the takers of all that can be taken. From<\/p>\n
birth, we are obsessed with our own mortality; we claw at life de-<\/p>\n
manding that it give up the secret to eternal youth.<\/p>\n
We think ourselves the grandest of creatures. Now it seems<\/p>\n
that we were grand only in our conceit of dominion of all that we felt<\/p>\n
we commanded. I am one with these creatures that stagger on the<\/p>\n
shore, seeking immortality. But I now am also one with the Song of<\/p>\n
the Sea.<\/p>\n
The Song of the Sea, now listened to and understood, boils<\/p>\n
in my blood. Life takes on new passions with which I am now filled.<\/p>\n
I am racked with envy of those who live in the sea, for I do not, and<\/p>\n
cannot, live there, though I crave to do so. I am sandwalker, and to<\/p>\n
be sandwalker is to covet all that you are not.<\/p>\n
The Song of the Sea has few requirements, but one dictate<\/p>\n
is that the singer, the recorder of the history of a pod, must always<\/p>\n
identify his or her position in the song. I have been called to record<\/p>\n
the song for my pod, for the sandwalker . . . for mankind.<\/p>\n
Therefore, as the song requires, as the song dictates . . . I<\/p>\n
begin at my beginning.<\/p>\n
I am called Sharon . . . born in the turbulent tides that<\/p>\n
flow without water on the dryside.<\/p>\n
My story begins . . .<\/p>\n
I was born, but, unlike the brethren of the song, I don\u2019t<\/p>\n
remember. The most glorious expression of life is birth. I envy my<\/p>\n
friends who live and sing in the sea for they remember this precise<\/p>\n
moment and before. Yet we, of all the creatures who live upon the<\/p>\n
earth, cannot remember the moment of our own beginning. We try.<\/p>\n
We want to remember, but all bits of this wondrous event seem to<\/p>\n
be scrubbed clean from our slate of memory, replaced by the initial<\/p>\n
feeble scratching of our profound desire to survive.<\/p>\n
My first memories of life are of muted rainbows that wrapped<\/p>\n
the world in sunset and dawn and changed blink by blink. I vaguely<\/p>\n
remember lying in my crib, gazing through the bars to watch a riot of<\/p>\n
colors and subtle movements that fought for my strictest attention.<\/p>\n
I remember waking to the gentle touch of a breeze through<\/p>\n
an open window and the subtle warmth of a sunlight ribbon lancing<\/p>\n
bright and bold. I remember the joy and reflections of laughter in<\/p>\n
my parents\u2019 eyes at my first hesitant steps. I remember their pain as<\/p>\n
they looked on my world of silent still, for I was born deaf.<\/p>\n
What an odd word . . . deaf. A brief word, a bleak word creat-<\/p>\n
ed by those who can hear; a word that to the deaf community signi-<\/p>\n
fies nothing. I do not envy sound. I do not cry or lament my lack.<\/p>\n
For having never experienced sound, how would I covet it? I have<\/p>\n
been pitied by nearly all I have met for my seeming lack of ability.<\/p>\n
But nature compensates, and my compensation was to feel emo-<\/p>\n
tion–to truly know the meaning of empathy. I have gone through<\/p>\n
life sensing without hearing all the music and the riot of sounds<\/p>\n
around me. I prefer my silence to the seemingly cheap carnival of<\/p>\n
sounds that hearing folk jostle to experience.<\/p>\n
I was taken to the best doctors in the world. Each, upon<\/p>\n
examining me, found the same thing. Where most are born with<\/p>\n
a complete inner ear, I, instead, possessed an odd growth of bone<\/p>\n
that blocked all sound. I could feel vibration, but there was nothing<\/p>\n
to amplify the tonal qualities. They remained simple vibrations–no<\/p>\n
sound. My parents tried and tried but finally resigned themselves to<\/p>\n
that which I had never questioned \u2013Their child was deaf.<\/p>\n
At an early age, my parents compensated for my lack by<\/p>\n
teaching me to sign–to speak the magic language of hand and body.<\/p>\n
I learned also how to read books much earlier than a so-called nor-<\/p>\n
mal child and was mesmerized by the magic of words. Still and all,<\/p>\n
signing is more expressive, and to that end–although I can read lips<\/p>\n
and feel the vibrations of sound–I would much rather paint my words<\/p>\n
on the wind than make the guttural utterances of normal folk.<\/p>\n
When I was four and very full of my own directions, my par-<\/p>\n
ents took me to the ocean. Oh, what a delight! Breezes, edged<\/p>\n
lightly with sharp, scented salts, abraded my face and made me feel<\/p>\n
alive. Churning waters rolled powerfully to the shore in great arms,<\/p>\n
then fists, then fingers outstretched, reaching for all and anything<\/p>\n
that came near. I wanted to go. I was compelled to walk as deep<\/p>\n
into the water as I could and then to swim farther still. The sea<\/p>\n
made me laugh. The sea made me cry. At first sight, I was obsessed<\/p>\n
with a longing to be a part of this vastness.<\/p>\n
And so, in my childlike simplicity of thought, action and deed<\/p>\n
became one, and I simply sank into the sea. The water boiled be-<\/p>\n
fore my eyes, and I could not truly see anything but bits of swirling<\/p>\n
sand. There was a power in the sea that I could not hear, but rather<\/p>\n
felt. I was shocked, for this was the first time that I truly felt sound.<\/p>\n
I felt the sea roaring, and that word took on new meaning. I felt the<\/p>\n
sea pound at the land, as in a battle fought from great distances.<\/p>\n
My journey was short lived. My father dashed into the water to save<\/p>\n
his daughter from drowning in her own delight.<\/p>\n
He yanked me, most unceremoniously, from the salty water.<\/p>\n
Like some prize dangling from his arms, he took me from my sea.<\/p>\n
As we splashed back to the beach, he clutched me to his chest. I<\/p>\n
could feel his heart pounding, an engine still fueled with the adren-<\/p>\n
aline of fear. I could not explain to either of my parents what I felt<\/p>\n
that day. The beauty and the power of the sea was mine to possess-<\/p>\n
-and mine alone. Greedily, I looked upon my domain–my sea. For<\/p>\n
the first time, I felt clean . . . absolutely clean and washed over. I<\/p>\n
didn\u2019t want to leave, and I remember that I threw a fit as we drove<\/p>\n
away from the immediate shore. They laughed at first, and then<\/p>\n
became distressed by my newfound obsession.<\/p>\n
Pouting, my lower lip extended in defiance, I sullenly rode<\/p>\n
with them to our other holiday adventures, paled now by compar-<\/p>\n
ison to the sea. Still later in the day, there came a surprise that<\/p>\n
almost superseded the grandeur of the sea. My parents took me to<\/p>\n
a place where the ocean fishes were kept in great windowed tanks<\/p>\n
filled with volumes of water. Here, I could easily view the majesty<\/p>\n
of life beneath the sea. As a child, I could almost sense what it was<\/p>\n
like to live beneath the waters.<\/p>\n
My mother, father, and I went hand-in-hand from win-<\/p>\n
dow-to-window, gazing at this sparkling world. Octopus, parrot fish,<\/p>\n
cod, and shark all swam together in a mighty synergism. One-by-<\/p>\n
one or in milling swarms, these creatures of the sea swam by my<\/p>\n
window, occasionally stopping to look at me through the glass, into<\/p>\n
my world as I looked into theirs. Oh, the delight, the joy!<\/p>\n
The tantrum I threw at being torn from the sea was nothing<\/p>\n
to the one I threw when my parents tried to take me from my win-<\/p>\n
dow. My world being soundless, I felt, nonetheless, the discomfort<\/p>\n
of the other aquarium visitors as I vented my frustration at leaving<\/p>\n
my new-found friends, the fishes. Out of embarrassment, my mother<\/p>\n
finally relented and allowed me to stand alone for a few more mo-<\/p>\n
ments at what was now clearly my window. My parents moved away,<\/p>\n
all the while keeping a cautious eye on their now wayward daughter<\/p>\n
who had become a bit infatuated by all. Sometimes being deaf lent<\/p>\n
an aura of mystery to an otherwise typical child and softened some<\/p>\n
punishments to pity.<\/p>\n
I stood there, looking through the glazed glass into a world<\/p>\n
as silent as mine. The minions continued to swim in parade, a<\/p>\n
revue as it were, and I would have watched forever, had it not been<\/p>\n
for a magical marshmallow monster. I had been peering into the<\/p>\n
gloom, my hands cupped around my eyes, my nose pressed against<\/p>\n
the glass. I was shocked beyond words as a creature made of white<\/p>\n
bubble gum, with black gumdrop eyes popped up from below the<\/p>\n
window. This monster seemed to rise from the bottom of the tank<\/p>\n
as I was looking up. One moment, it wasn\u2019t there, and the next, it<\/p>\n
was. I screamed but continued to watch in rapt fascination.<\/p>\n
When I could take no more, I ducked down below the glass<\/p>\n
and, after catching my breath, gripped the sweating metal brace<\/p>\n
beam and peeked back into the tank. The monster was gone. I<\/p>\n
stood, shaken by the surprise of it all, when up popped the monster<\/p>\n
again. Down I ducked; and, as I ducked, I noticed that the monster<\/p>\n
did the same.<\/p>\n
It is miraculous how quickly a child can convert from fear<\/p>\n
to fascination and on to delight, and I was no exception. I popped<\/p>\n
up–the monster popped up. I dropped down–the monster disap-<\/p>\n
peared. I thought to catch this creature in the act. I slowly peeped<\/p>\n
one eye above the frame to watch its monstrous head rise into view.<\/p>\n
As slowly as I rose, so rose the monster until I was looking into the<\/p>\n
heart of his very merry eye. Captured whole by this delight of the<\/p>\n
deep, I looked into his soul and found so much depth of heart and<\/p>\n
compassion that I cried for want of never leaving.<\/p>\n
In a burst of bubbles, this most unlikely monster backed off<\/p>\n
so I could see all of him. He was nearly fifteen feet long and pearly<\/p>\n
white from the tip of his bubbled head to the end of his tail. He ca-<\/p>\n
vorted for me there, this priceless crown prince of the teasing sea.<\/p>\n
I could feel my laughter welling in bursts of giggles as I watched<\/p>\n
my new-found friend twist and turn, swimming sideways and upside<\/p>\n
down, all for my delight. Without my notice, my parents had joined<\/p>\n
me and watched in fascination. Father signed that this delightful<\/p>\n
creature was whale and, letter-by-letter, spelled out the word Beluga:<\/p>\n
Beluga whale–a perfect name for my marshmallow monster.<\/p>\n
I was captured that day, as only a four-year-old can be, and<\/p>\n
I pledged myself for all time to the sea. Many, many years later at<\/p>\n
my college graduation, I stood on the dais and signed the word . .<\/p>\n
. Beluga. Only my parents understood the reference to a very funny<\/p>\n
whale that, for whatever reason, sought to make a little girl laugh.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE I have been to the Conclave–a gathering of the greatest minds on earth–and none of those minds were of man. None of those who were present has ever walked the shores of the waters of life, nor have any of them ever envied those who do. I have been with Harmony. I have […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-1369","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-uncategorized","7":"entry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1369","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1369"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1369\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1370,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1369\/revisions\/1370"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1369"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1369"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1369"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}