Errands and Oceans
Errands and Oceans
The driftwood lay
hidden in plain sight
among the other casualties of tide and time
scattered along the pebble beach.
Nothing distinguished it
at first glance—
no halo,
no celestial spotlight.
And yet this one—
this particular log—
began to hum
in that low magnetic register
reserved for things that have been waiting.
Or perhaps it was only the light
tilting just so.
Let’s allow for physics.
Across its surface ran wandering lines,
the tidy chaos of beetles
who tunneled just beneath the bark,
never suspecting they were engraving
a message for the future.
The script predated me
by decades at least.
And yet it synchronized
with my afternoon stroll—
the misplaced keys,
the unexpected detour,
the red light lingering longer than patience,
the quiet temptation
to turn back.
How the log charted oceans,
weather,
time,
and my particular sequence of delays
to share its hidden wisdom
at this exact moment
remains unclear.
But here we are.
The markings, if read generously,
appear to say:
You are exactly where you are supposed to be.
Your journey may have included
more than misplaced keys.
More than an unexpected detour.
More than waiting at a light
that refused to change.
There may have been
a wrong turn that lasted longer than expected.
A door closed too quickly.
A sentence you still replay
when the house is quiet.
Still—
every delay, every redirection,
even the turn you would undo
if given the chance,
has delivered you
to this narrow strip of now.
You are here
in this brief century
of errands and oceans
to play the only part
that fits you exactly.
The tides could have rehearsed without you.
But they didn’t.
Of course,
it could simply be beetles.
But I suspect
they knew exactly
what they were doing.
After all,
you are here.