Treading Water By the Lighthouse

An allegory on community

Photo by Lynn Jordan on Unsplash

One day, walking barefoot on the beach, I came across a tower. My feet were scraped. My heart was heavy, and all I saw was shelter. So I climbed. I grabbed tight with suctioned hands, feet that had found their webbing once they hit the stucco, and up up up like some mix of Spidergirl and Rapunzel, I headed toward the lookout.

Something said that this was the place where I would save myself. I did not know the secret pain of the climb. The blisters and open sores I would endure.

I didn’t realize how crowded it would be on the wall. And how thankful I would be for the company. How poisoned I would be by the sea air that whispered lies and truths, both too hard to endure.

As some passed me, I took it in stride, at first. Continued my lessons. Held tight. Reached higher. Looked out into the sea at each high tide with a little better view.

Some climbed to the top of the lighthouse only to dive deep into the sea. Closed their eyes. Breathed deep. Let the sea magic devour them. Turn them into guppies, swordfish, mollies, and merpeople swimming deep into mythical lands.

But I let go before my time. Stood still bewildered a while before wading once again. I look in the water and see my reflection. Still human, yet not unchanged. For now, I’m too tired to climb the tower. Too comfortable to simply head back to the shore.

Some are people like me. Standing still sometimes. Treading water sometimes. Getting stronger to climb another day. To see a little futher out to sea where the merpeople live. I do not need to catch them or the swordfish or guppies or mollies. Not today. If I try the climb, it will be in my own good time. Today I say, “I am what I am. Come on in. The water’s fine.”