A wintry Atlantic far as the eye can see
backed up against the Meher Center.
Rough tide rolling in; soon to be withdrawn
by some ancient schedule, natural as breath.
High tide deposits, ebb tide removes,
each drop illusory, transitory, necessary.
Disturbed neither by its bounty nor dearth
as it takes and gives not what I desire
but what I require. Such is my faith.
Ever functioning in its to-and-fro mystery,
there’s no lost book, its secrets to reveal.
Read instead its ragged roar and song.
Allow it to envelop, permeate, drench,
ready you for when the grace comes
to repair, restore, return your soul
to its depths unfathomable.
O child of God, your Father is the Ocean.
Every shore on which you stand is foreign.