In Judith Kitchen’s essay “Direction,” she writes of traveling with a friend in Greece and being asked to step out of her cab on a dark road by a driver she doesn’t trust. She and her friend refuse to get out, not by saying no, but by huddling in the back seat and crying thalassa, thalassa. Ocean, ocean.
Crying direction and saving themselves.
I split this past summer between residencies in Minnesota and Nebraska, writing, thinking about ocean and about salvation. About what’s inside us—how the matter of our origins can save us. About love for the how of creation and a God who deserves to be loved for the how. About crying thalassa, saying “I am ocean and worth saving.”
I was writing about dance and thinking about bones, calcium, carbonate of lime. Calcium comes from water. When mammals were just a dream on a volcanic and shifting earth, bones were made by water. I’m water, carbonate of lime, the memory of a tide. I was formed by wetness and rolling wave. I’m light and breakable as heaven.
I’m taking some poetic license here. I’m also trying to take a little salvation where I can find it.