Lighthouse

It was quickly becoming

a dark and stormy Tuesday night...

There is a man,

a keeper of a lighthouse

who regards that lighthouse as his castle.

He holds a deep passion for the sea,

both it’s stunning beauty

and it’s mysterious darkness.

He has given up on the land

which he had once called home.

“Angry,” said the man to himself.

“Why is my keeper so angry tonight?”

The darkening clouds towered overheard

as if to silence his question,

and their angry faces kept being revealed by

each jagged streak of lightning.

The gusting wind howled from every direction,

as if to answer his question,

yet that howl held no spoken words,

just timeless emotion.

The hammering waves crashed from all around,

as if to punish him for asking the question

by lashing out at the coast

scratching and scraping as much as they could.

The thunder roared

screaming furiously

as though he were in charge of the storm

directing the anger at

anything and everything in it’s path.

Most men would have fled the lighthouse

at this sign of anger.

But the man just picked up a violin and

patiently,

methodically,

understandingly,

passionately,

and even stubbornly

began to play hard and heavy with

dis-

jointed

notes.

The rains fell instantly,

hard and fierce.

Trees were snapped in half

in their unsuccessful attempt

at standing up to the jagged streaks of lightning.

The man inside was playing with a fury

not unlike the raging storm outside;

his harsh sounds blending in with the noise of the storm.

Birds appeared to be flying backwards

in their unsuccessful attempt

at flying against the power of the wind.

The man inside was still playing with an even greater fury

not unlike the raging storm outside;

as if to out-perform the display the rage occurring outside.

And the light of the lighthouse still remained unaffected.

A boat tipped over

in it’s unsuccessful attempt

at churning forward through the choppy seas.

A woman from that boat started swimming

towards a beam of light coming from her right.

She thought it might have been lightning.

(but she later reflected that the smallest ray of hope,

even if it turns out to be a ray of something else,

is sometimes better than not having a ray at all.)

so she kept on swimming

The seas were angry!

The waves paralyzed her strength to swim

The rains blinded her vision of the ray

The winds silenced her screams of terror

The thunder stole her train of thought

The lightning scarred her courage to cope.

The man inside was still playing

feeding off of and shutting out

the display of rage occurring

outside of his house of light.

(at this point, one might think the music of the violins would have reached some humpback whales, which would then carry the woman to safety.  not so.  the whales had previously fled to safer waters long before the storm arrived.)

Somehow,

an eternity later,

(but in reality only ten minutes later)

against all odds,

and against the forces working against her,

the woman half swam and half floated

onto the sand in front of the lighthouse.

Too exhausted to know what she had found

and too exhausted to comprehend what had just occurred

her instinct collapsed on the shore.

And the storm raged on.

And the violin played on.

And the light remained on.

And the woman’s instinct lingered on.

And the anger raced through every living thing

that lonely stormy night.

And it was some war:

The storm representing nature’s emotion;

The violin representing man’s emotion;

the emotions of a violent and vicious anger.

The war/storm/performance lasted 4 ½ days.

Finally,

On Sunday afternoon,

the storm ended suddenly.

The remaining echoes of the

wind and waves and thunder and violin

became nothing more than distant reminders

of the war which produced no winners

of the storm which produced no damage

of the performance which produced no applause.

And even the once-ominous clouds

were headed for the horizon

in a defeated march away form the light of the sun

which had regained control of the skies.

As consciousness replaced

the anger of the man

and the exhaustion of the woman,

they both headed to the door of the lighthouse

(the man from the inside,

the woman from the outside.)

And as if by coincidence

(although it wasn’t one at all)

they met at the door at the same time.

And as each person

looked into/looked out to

each other’s respective areas

of the stormy past,

they each began to discuss their pasts

under blue skies and above blue water,

in the light of the house and the light of the sun.