I could hear the ocean in your voice, David. The words gently washing up in waves and then the subtle rumbling of small pebbles as the waters pulled back from the shore. I have never fished for pollock but have watched them swim about my feet as I floated in gelid Scottish waters and when I look for a piece of iron near an old harbour it is usually with the intent of wrapping it in silk and seaweed in the hope of imprinting the former with the magic of the latter. Though I live two hours from the coast, I love the sea and have a feeling that the 2% Irish that shows up in my DNA was gifted me by a selkie ancestor (who was probably a fine storyteller too). All of which is just a very long-winded way of saying thank you for another beautiful telling.
Oh, now I’m really in your debt, India. Gelid. Never heard the ring of that lovely word before. I’m hearing all sorts of echoes and I’ll be off to Dwelly or even further back to try and wriggle my way to the source :-)
I am absolutely transported by your writing. And what a delight to hear you read the words. I have been unintentionally absent from your beautiful corner of Substack since "The ghost with a bucket that sings," and am so excited to realize how many pieces of yours I have yet to read. I will ration them to myself like holiday chocolates.
As always, your words are like fine brushstrokes, and your love for the world so evident. There's a lot of strident, loud talking right now, and I'm more and more drawn to the kind of writing you offer here. I've always loved the sea, loved to be in it and watching it. I'm glad you are discovering its magic.
is so…mythic. Your tales shaped by the elements, and you’re right, they are strange, like dreams sometimes. But how else could you show us the mysteries.
Hi Carmine, hope all well with you and yours. I think that maybe some of the bits of my brain that were supposed to be for interacting with other people (at which I have always been profoundly awkward) got wired into circuits that go looking for faces and voices in the world. So I just write about the characters I meet. They are all real, by the way. I sadly have no aptitude for fiction, and have great admiration for those who do :-)
Thank you, David. I love the ocean, but I am a child of the great Northern Prairie, landlocked. I can spin yarns of old grain sheds, and saskatoon berry bushes and gravel roads, but the sea was a sacred place only to visit, and while I loved the magic of jt, I am a child of the prairie grass, the butterfly and the hornet, the mud and the rocks. I’ve travelled far and wide, but always, I return to the prairie of Canada. I do easily get caught up in your magickal words, sparse, yet descriptive as they ought. Thank you for sharing this slice of your life. Be well.
Hi again Heather. You should spin those yarns of yours, and them being yours alone. I have never been to your prairies but I have heard tell of great oceans of grass and flowers :-)
“One day all that was done. The best stories have endings. The hourglass of life turned so that the sand could flow back whence it had come.” I think we all come to that same intersection in the road. Different for each of us. You have defined this so beautifully. I stand staring out to sea at the endless horizon, listening to the ebb and flow of your voice. Mesmerized as you tell me the ways of the boatman.
“Then the boatman reaches out and runs his fingers tenderly over the hieroglyphs on the whale’s skin, reading them like braille.”
“How he greets each wave in the infinite ocean as an individual.”
Thank you David. I am sending a song I’m sure you must know. I happened to come across a while ago.
Thank you for this profound wisdom David. Knowing real silence, diving deep into the soul and emerging to face the times we live in. Deep peace to you!
Oh, that warms the heart, Freda. We used to live up near Loch Altan and so when I was studying in Derry I'd pass through beautiful Creeslough very often and sometimes divert off the road home to visit the old oaks by the shore. I know that they can never forget or recover what was lost, but I hope that peace and equilibrium has returned to them as best as can be since that awful day.
I could hear the ocean in your voice, David. The words gently washing up in waves and then the subtle rumbling of small pebbles as the waters pulled back from the shore. I have never fished for pollock but have watched them swim about my feet as I floated in gelid Scottish waters and when I look for a piece of iron near an old harbour it is usually with the intent of wrapping it in silk and seaweed in the hope of imprinting the former with the magic of the latter. Though I live two hours from the coast, I love the sea and have a feeling that the 2% Irish that shows up in my DNA was gifted me by a selkie ancestor (who was probably a fine storyteller too). All of which is just a very long-winded way of saying thank you for another beautiful telling.
Oh, now I’m really in your debt, India. Gelid. Never heard the ring of that lovely word before. I’m hearing all sorts of echoes and I’ll be off to Dwelly or even further back to try and wriggle my way to the source :-)
I am absolutely transported by your writing. And what a delight to hear you read the words. I have been unintentionally absent from your beautiful corner of Substack since "The ghost with a bucket that sings," and am so excited to realize how many pieces of yours I have yet to read. I will ration them to myself like holiday chocolates.
Thanks so much. I wonder sometimes if I make any sense outside of my funny old world. But then kind voices come echoing back out of the blue :-)
As always, your words are like fine brushstrokes, and your love for the world so evident. There's a lot of strident, loud talking right now, and I'm more and more drawn to the kind of writing you offer here. I've always loved the sea, loved to be in it and watching it. I'm glad you are discovering its magic.
Thanks, Carri. That is, as always, very kind. Wishing you and your sea-friend many happy days together :-)
Your life (or is it your point of view?)
is so…mythic. Your tales shaped by the elements, and you’re right, they are strange, like dreams sometimes. But how else could you show us the mysteries.
Hi Carmine, hope all well with you and yours. I think that maybe some of the bits of my brain that were supposed to be for interacting with other people (at which I have always been profoundly awkward) got wired into circuits that go looking for faces and voices in the world. So I just write about the characters I meet. They are all real, by the way. I sadly have no aptitude for fiction, and have great admiration for those who do :-)
True stories are the best kind, and aren’t we always creating narratives from life? Thanks for so artfully sharing yours.
Oh David your writings bring tears as well as wonder with the words. Thank you
Hi again, Ambermoggie. Where would we be without the little reminders of the ocean that well up in our eyes? :-)
I was transfixed* by your story - thank you for letting me be part of your experience.
* cause (someone) to become motionless with horror, wonder, or astonishment.
Thanks, Lisa, that is kind of you to say. I'm glad you found something at the bottom of my bag of words :-)
Oh! So lovely, your words are like medicine. Thank you.
Thanks, Shona. I'm glad you found some use in them :-)
Thank you, David. I love the ocean, but I am a child of the great Northern Prairie, landlocked. I can spin yarns of old grain sheds, and saskatoon berry bushes and gravel roads, but the sea was a sacred place only to visit, and while I loved the magic of jt, I am a child of the prairie grass, the butterfly and the hornet, the mud and the rocks. I’ve travelled far and wide, but always, I return to the prairie of Canada. I do easily get caught up in your magickal words, sparse, yet descriptive as they ought. Thank you for sharing this slice of your life. Be well.
Hi again Heather. You should spin those yarns of yours, and them being yours alone. I have never been to your prairies but I have heard tell of great oceans of grass and flowers :-)
“One day all that was done. The best stories have endings. The hourglass of life turned so that the sand could flow back whence it had come.” I think we all come to that same intersection in the road. Different for each of us. You have defined this so beautifully. I stand staring out to sea at the endless horizon, listening to the ebb and flow of your voice. Mesmerized as you tell me the ways of the boatman.
“Then the boatman reaches out and runs his fingers tenderly over the hieroglyphs on the whale’s skin, reading them like braille.”
“How he greets each wave in the infinite ocean as an individual.”
Thank you David. I am sending a song I’m sure you must know. I happened to come across a while ago.
Enjoy, as I have enjoyed your writing.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CoZfNtAW1Ms
Thanks so much, Lor. I knew the song for sure but not this artist and her lovely version. A treasure :-)
Thank you for this profound wisdom David. Knowing real silence, diving deep into the soul and emerging to face the times we live in. Deep peace to you!
Sharon
Thanks for getting back and being so kind, Sharon.
This is a beautiful escape from the political circus that is going on in the US. Thank you.
Thanks, Blaire. Best of luck for the months ahead.
Beautiful imagery. And yes, all good stories must end. Thank you
Thanks, Carey. It is always so fascinating to see the phrases and images that people notice :-)
A truly haunting piece of writing and beautifully narrated too.
Thanks, Ramona, that is kind of you.
Beautiful, David, made all the better by your audio! I am fortunate to live surrounded by sea coast. Magical!
Hi again, Patricia. Ha, you'll know the salty story better than me :-) Thanks for reading and listening.
Thank you, David. Another wonderful piece. I’ve sent it on to family in Creeslough…it will mean so much to them too.
Oh, that warms the heart, Freda. We used to live up near Loch Altan and so when I was studying in Derry I'd pass through beautiful Creeslough very often and sometimes divert off the road home to visit the old oaks by the shore. I know that they can never forget or recover what was lost, but I hope that peace and equilibrium has returned to them as best as can be since that awful day.
Ahhhhh....great ride. Thank you!
Glad you got something out of it, Eve. Thanks for being in touch and for your kindness.