From Salt House by Cynthia Huntington
Here is the point of creation, a beat that has been going on since time began. The present: breaking, moving, clashing, never to be repeated; the world teetering on a point of balance. The waves make old music, tearing at the shore, singing, "you must change, change," as they press forward on the land, a movement widening, center to circumference, opening until it breaks. Offshore a small boat drifts with the current; there's a dagger about a mile down, in close pulling for scallops. Overhead, a pale broad sky floats off into space, not even seeming to touch the horizon.
The sun is high now; I need to think about heading back. If I turn around the scene will all be new, this sheet of sand before me, the endless border of sea and land, and offshore a green curl of wave breaking over the sandbar. You can't bend time backward; even the way home is another going forward, and the waves never repeat, or rest. One curve leads to another, endlessly disappearing, I walk, balanced on an invisible line that only exists in motion,. And wherever I step, waves are tearing the ground away beneath my feet.
The sky is cold; its air is thin. I walk in the sky, bathed in sky, holding onto this narrow shore where the sea approaches and retreats before me. A line of sand grains forms at the shoreline and presses inland, a single line, then another. I give a moment to looking both ways, but I walk the edge, my head turned toward the path, the line without width or depth. The beach goes on forever and I walk that disappearing line, into time that opens to the pressure of my passing and closes behind me, complete.
Yet the world is real, repeating its coherent patterns. A pulse thrums through the bare matter, arranging visible molecules in its reflection, adding a curve to every line - it beat through us and we're lifted, carried forward, reeling. For every fall forward is a compensatory holding back, a hesitancy in matter that makes it circle back to complete itself. Straight lines are the mind's fantasy; the world is round and we move in orbits, revolving away from a center we do not see, and "the way from any point to any other point," as D.H. Lawrence wrote, "is around the bend of the inevitable" - From The Salt House by Cynthia Huntington
I need to think about heading back. Where are the straight lines in a life?