I’ve been washed in the water
Baptised into another life
You restore my soul
You rejuvenate my spirit
You lead me to still places, even
in the presence of turmoil and
terror
As safe harbor in a storm
Let me drop anchor and hold strong
against torment-tossed winds
I’ve been washed in the water
true home
Welcome me back when all this is done.
______________________________________
Jessan Dunn Otis (c) 2022
The beauty of this place
Sweet, salted sea air Pine and palm Sugar sand and St. George Island – sand dollar, shark tooth “TomTom, how you doin’?” “I’m doin’ alright.” Tillie Miller Bridge between here and Tiki – Plump, Gulf shrimp and Apalach oysters Hickory smoked chicken and ribs (no rub) and sunfried jellyfish
Seagulls Sea terns Great blue herons Dolphins spyhop and blow every now and then Distant light on Dog Island in a 2:20 AM blueblacknight
Sopchoppy Eastpoint Panacea Alligator Point
A few days back Julie and Artie left, again, having returned from leaving once before and we all walked this beach, beyond the pine tree point, further than any of us had gone before – sea-silvered driftwood, beheaded brown pelican in the brambles of sea grass and pine needles Warming sun Cool, hard-packed, low tide sugar sand under bare feet Sassy leaping pine-stained, sepia rivulets
The laughing gull has returned each morning, greeting and reclaiming its territory and, more than likely, calling out “Sea urchin!” to the others that, eventually, return — glide, drift, rise and drop, land Eat, stay — then, again, depart — leaving this length of calm, shallow bay to terns, herons and egrets to forage
The beauty of this place is as intricately delicate as the silent glideflight of eleven brown pelicans in singular formation, skimming the shallow wave crests – moving from east to west – becoming, eventually, a pulsing line disappearing into the horizon
The beauty of this place
The red smirch of Crystal hot sauce spilled at the edge of a previous high tide line, scattered with Apalachicola oyster shells from our early evening appetizers, has been consumed by the storm-driven, rough chop of last night’s rain, wind and the approaching full moon Wind out of the Southeast, breaking diagonal crests of gunmetal gray and the red buoy strains on its chains as the tide shifts and the channel churns
There is violence in the beauty of this place, too – ships lost, lives swallowed whole, coyotes grab dogs, alligators grab anything
Waves meet land and visibly reverberate back into water, again –
making unmaking remaking
A broken buoy drifts Freed until it’s caught on low tide sea grass before this tide turns The sun breaches darkening, layered afternoon storm clouds to the West, while brilliantly illuminating the etched, white sandbar over there
Burble of language bounces inside my ear – “Hey! How you doin’?” heard so often it becomes as familiar and unnoticed as the wave and the air and this light
The beauty of this place is as much a mystery to me as you
Bert and Kathy, Hattie and Zack – come and met and gone Orange and onion salad, frittatas made and shared Al and Sandy, Sharon and Larry, Scotty, Doug, Gen and Ted Sun-warmed, woman laughing with Pat — LaVerne with her easy, flashing Apalach smile Kim and Tony and oystering all Monday morning across from St. Vincent because the rip was too chopped
Three brilliant, crested egrets graze along this shore, dolphins pass and blow and continue on, as heedless of us as the swarm of terns that rise and twist and glide away to feed further down on this storm-tossed, driven gloss
WOYS, Oyster Radio, 100.5 FM, plays softly as the shrouded sun journeys further West The playful pinwheel whirls and chatters, stick jammed between the weathered 1st and 2nd boards of that well-worn picnic table Just outside this open window, burlap oyster bag flaps
Steelwater, forbidding wind along this coast of Carrabelle Another invisible finger whips this water, etching new (yet ancient) patterns
Tide turns, distant sandbar, barrier beach revealed Unseen fish school as flocks follow and feed, far off
Damp, salted air Thin, singular electric line that leads from shore to dock light Whisper of wave and wind
The beauty of this place
No matter where I go nor what I do, the beauty of this place will taste like home as salt is in my tears
The apparent void dissolved The horizon I can never reach will always draw me in, seeming to want to go further than my eye can see, when the greatest daring starts within
The beauty of this place…
~ ~ ~
Dedicated to: Suzanne Creamer, Stephine McDowell, Marlene Moore, Jennifer Moro, Albert Otis, Jennifer Pickett, C.J.(Joe)Pouncey, Sassy, Judi Rundel
~ ~ ~
HoHum RV Park/Carrabelle, Florida/January-February, 2004
(c)Jessan Dunn Otis / 2004-2017
Happy Birthday
Can you remember;
or, is it only a story
told and told until it becomes
what you believe is your reality
That day you mysteriously passed
from one realm into the next,
having floated in that seawomb
of oblivion
Yelping, speechless, totally dependent –
one year later a celebration of one year
passed; and, on and on until there are
no more
Some I’ve known have come and gone so fast
it took my breath away and, to this day,
their sudden loss is felt
Others stayed for many years, celebration
after celebration until, finally, all the
vital parts slowed down, faded, failing, slipping
into Rest
Loved short or long (some unknown, but
told of or heard on the evening news) It is
the way we all must go — from flesh to flesh
and dust to dust, we do not know the number
of our days
(In this dark, still night I think about these things)
The coming in
The going out
It is the Spirit that survives, lives on
Only for a moment or two (however short
or long that is) does Spirit take body and is
named
Happy Birthday
Birth Day
Birth
Day.
A new spin on K.I.S.S. ~ essay
Sitting in my science class in junior high school, my desk was at the back of the room, situated to look down one of those long hall ways.
Someone was out of class and shouted out, “You’re stupid!” to someone I couldn’t see. That echoed ’round that long, empty hallway and smacked me right in my gut. What an ugly word to shout at someone.
Years later someone shared K.I.S.S. with me and there was that ugly word again. Despicable.
I’d have none of that.
From that time forward I changed that last “S” to “Sweetie”. So much better.
Words have power. They can heal or they hurt.
Mind what flows through your lips. You are responsible for what you speak and what you don’t speak.
K(eep) I(t) S(imple) S(weetie).
K.I.S.S.
~~~~~
\
6:41 AM ~ poem
In this early morning, break-of-a-new day light
In this cooling, new-day air
I could live
forever.
(c) poem and photo credit – Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer – August 30, 2016
“Respond to every call that excites your spirit.” ~ Rumi #quote
The turn of a page and a new month arrives. For those of us who live in certain territories, we’ve either “gained” or lost an hour in our day (how is that, truly, possible?).
Leaves turn golden, brilliant red, shades of vermillion and, then, drop resolutely to the damp earth. Nature taking itself back into Nature – circles within circles.
As someone I know, often, says – “These are the days of the long shadows.” Sunsets are more intense, as if to linger just a moment or two longer. There’s a typical New England chill in the air that signals migrations, harvests, a kind of gathering together that, most likely, harkens back to archaic, atavistic times.
Today is, also, All Saints Day, a celebration of all saints, known and unknown – preceded by Halloween and followed by Day of the Dead (Dia de Muertos). These, too, are ancient, atavistic, deeply-held, socio-religious ceremonies.
All of this speaks to me in a language of smoldering embers, after the heat and brilliance of Summer. There’s a kind of “dampening down” at this time of year here. Perhaps that’s why Rumi’s quote holds a certain meaning. If it’s true that there’s beauty in everything, even this “dying down” and celebrating saints and Spirits is mysterious and exciting. This is a kind of “call” that ignites me.
As I move through each day, there’s a singular sweetness because of the drying hydrangeas outside my window, the pungent leaf mold from the cut back urban garden, picking the last of the tomatoes, hearing the migrating calls of flocks of geese heading south, remembering other places, other people.
I hear Rumi’s call to respond to that which excites me, transcending apparent barriers of time and space.
What excites your Spirit?
Before All Our Lives Began to Change – narrative
In every life there are times that drive us back inside ourselves, that cause us to remember people, places, events that may have been met, passed through and/or witnessed many years earlier; and, to reflect upon those remembrances from a different point of view.
In particular, the past year and a half has been another period of that kind of reflection in my life. Often, these times a hard. Frequently triggered by a loss. That is true with me.
I write about this not from the point of pity but, rather, with gratitude. It’s been another kind of refining, tempering and becoming more clear, less “cluttered” and closer (still) to my truer self – a life-long process.
This is just to say that if you, too, have been suffering, felt lost, are confused or are in a moment of pain and seek peace – keep searching, go to those “hard places” that only you truly know about your life, open your Spirit to the simple beauty that is always available.
No one ever told me this living would be easy. I’m not telling you that either.
What I’m saying is face your fears (they are illusions). Embrace (wholeheartedly and openly) your pain. Call it by name, deal with it and, then, move on to the better parts that are waiting for you to arrive.
What I’m continually reminded of when I re-emerge from these times is that the singular gifts of love, light and laughter are always available, it is a choice to receive or reject them.
In gratitude,
~ Jessan
Jessan Dunn Otis|Writer 