Barber - Adagio for Strings

Placid sea, swelling foamy crests.  I, on my raft, face the frothy spume lifting me and sliding past me as I head out, some distance from land.  I lie back and let the great liquid mass beneath me lift me gently, then let me down, then lift we again.  Quietly, peacefully, the surge of the deep lifts and lowers my body rhythmically, gently, but powerfully.  My arm covers my closed eyes to lessen the glare of sun through eyelids.  Up, down, up, down.  My skin tingles in warmth, a slight spray occasionally creating a chill as it evaporates from my legs, arms, and head.  Salty air bites at my nostrils.

My smallness comforts me as I submit to the great powers that push under me.  I'm too small to resist, too weak to quell the infinite powers that hold me in their mercy.  Since there's nothing to do in the face of such greatness, there's nothing to do but slide and float along.  I submit freely to its movements, trusting that a lack of trust is no help.

There's nothing in the great swells to comfort me but my own sense of place in the whole.  I am no accident, no floating stick, no aimless sea-bird.  I have the illusion of control, but the reality of choice.  I can fight the waves or move with them, be exhausted or be free.  They can take my life or give me sway.  They can be my gravest enemy or the mode of passage across the ocean.  When they waves claim me, they will take me as I decide to be taken, on my terms, in my manner.

My enemy is not the waves or the power driving them, but the pull of fear that makes me lose sight of the journey and despair to be rescued.  The seas are my death, but also my life.