POEM: MUSIC OF THE MASTS

Music of the Masts

Mists roll in from the lake,

and the magic of the shoreline

appears once more.

These are not the fogs

that smother seashore towns,

burdening people’s lives

with their mystery.

These lakeside mists

are soft, cool dampness;

light coverings over the land.

And with the breeze

that carries these happier shrouds

comes the music of the masts:

lines and cables softly ringing

against the metal poles

as the sailboats rock to and fro

along the quay.

Like wind chimes.

Like monastery bells.

Like the snapping lines

and cloth of prayer flags

strung across the blue skies

of faraway valley walls.

THIS IS ANOTHER OF THOSE 'MOMENT POEMS'. I was walking along the lake shore past the marina and there was a light fog coming in off the lake. Traffic was muffled, it was early morning, and few people were around. The place became quiet, almost like I had just stepped inside a church. Yet there was a certain carefree solemnity, if I can put it that way, and a kind of gentle playfulness. My feet sounded too loud on the dock’s planking, and I tried to walk as quietly as I could. The breeze brought with it a bit of ruff, and the boats began to rock. The sound made by the lines slapping against the masts had a musical quality to them, yet were mostly arrhythmic to my ear, though not in an unpleasant way. I knew their sounds contained rhythms I could not fully appreciate, but I could listen to their joyful dissonance, and it was like being in two places at once. The multitudinous ringing of the lines against the masts of all those sailboats as they dipped and swayed broke through my daily thoughts, not roughly, but like waves will move through a sandbar, slowly and inevitably.  

And the flapping of untrimmed sails on some of the boats put in my mind the image of prayer flags I had seen once (on a documentary, not in person, unfortunately) strung across narrow valley walls in Nepal or Tibet perhaps. There was something about the wind, the misty fog, the “music of the masts” and the gentle flapping of the sailcloth that transported me somewhere and some when else.

What do you make of those kinds of moments, when you’re moved somewhere else like that, yet you’re still right where you are? They can be confusing, even disconcerting, at times. But they also can be exhilarating, like it was for me on the lake shore. 
I remember having a dream once or twice about walking up the side of a wall or well, and the feeling of vertigo was counterbalanced by this incredible freedom I felt to perform such a feat. That morning felt a bit like that dream. I was partially transported elsewhere: to a Tibetan mountainside or maybe it was to another lake shore shrouded in fog and to another time. I felt powerful in a way, and also grateful that I was allowed to experience whatever it was I was experiencing. I’m sure we’ve all have such moments:

Dreamlike. Prayerful. Solemn, yet light and carefree at the same time. You felt like you were supposed to be there at that particular spot, at that particular moment. There was a feeling like you’re part of something larger than yourself. And more, that there was (and is) something there that welcomes you. That feeling of welcoming (not so much beckoning or calling, I think), it's as if there's a door or gate you can walk through, and once you’ve crossed the threshold, you’re received with a quiet joy, and you discover, if only for a short while, that there’s more there than you ever could have known.