whole

When I first saw the bowl-with-a-hole-already-right-in-the-very-bottom, I made an agreement with myself that I would not offer to adopt it until



 a.) I had first put my broken vessel  to use and

 b.) I had figured out how to accentuate the bowl's natural blemish.

I only kept half of the deal with myself but figured inspiration would set in by the time the bowl arrived in the mail or I would simply use the bowl in its already beautiful natural state instead of trying to turn it into an object lesson for my classroom of one.



I thought I might attempt to seal the hole- perhaps with a clear epoxy I've used in the past. I would prove its usefulness despite the natural handicap it had been created with.



As the days ticked past, I occasionally found myself humming "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea." and one day last weekend, without any particular song in mind, I queued up my Paul Wright playlist. It was only a short trip from 'My Everything' to '...inside my bowl, there is a hole, that only you can fill...'

(Actual Lyrics: ..."Inside my soul, there is a hole, that only You can fill")



Hole in my bowl,  in the sea,  in my soul.

Sea Soul Bowl



There's a log in the bottom of the sea...

There's a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea...

There's a log...

from my eye

in the hole

in the bottom

of the sea



::Time Out:: 



There was a time many years back when the song 'Ocean's Floor' by Audio Adrenaline found me. I clung to its reassurance of clean slates and new mercies sung over and over to my broken spirit.
Around that same time, I was given a ring by my sister,  a simple silver band inscribed FORGIVEN. She wanted me to remember that we can all be forgiven, and also that we can all  forgive.

One stormy night, that ring was taken from me and flung far into the rain-drenched night by a  person who wished to make it clear that I was not forgiven, not by them. Nor would I ever be.



::Time In::



The bowl arrived and I started to think about how some holes have purpose. If you clog them, the results aren't nice. Drains, for instance. Tracheas. My desire was not for the bowl to hold water, or candy or even air. I wanted it to hold a story.



And so, I knotted and knitted those various strands of thought and song together and filled the bowl with a reminder: a forgetful blue sea with a chasm of forgiveness at the bottom.

Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity and passing over transgression
for the remnant of his inheritance? He does not retain his anger
forever, because he delights in steadfast love. He will again have
compassion on us; he will tread our iniquities underfoot. You will cast
all our sins into the depths of the sea. Micah 7:18-19

 

I may add more sea elements as time allows-- perhaps a big ol' fish swallowing Jonah. Me and that guy have a lot in common.  

**UPDATE** Bowl of Forgiveness, now with more sea. 

 

Island Sketches: Julie

Julie tucks a stray curl the color of cinnamon and ginger, behind her ear as she finishes filling in the deposit slip.

Island sketches: Tom

Tom bikes to the Minute Clinic pulling an empty toddler trailer behind his faithful old Townie. His teal scrubs show no signs of exertion, even though the morning is hot and tropic. After his shift, he will pick the typhoon twins up from the day camp being held at the old school.

It is the last day of  junior surf camp. All week, the added steps of putting surf gear away and removing as much sand as it takes to comfortably ride home has added an extra half hour to the boys' pick-up routine. 

Just time enough to pull the clinic shades for a power nap and wake in time to stop by Julie's for his usual. 

Julie closes at four, but she doesn't leave until Tom stops by, even if he's running late. She always has a smoothie on standby for him and a little something to eat. Tom is always appreciative, even when the smoothie has spinach.  

Islanders know all about Tom's naps and we take special care not to disturb him when he's fortunate enough to grab one. 

Between endless clinic shifts and caring for Dax and Dylan, his plate is full-to-overflowing. And that's before you factor in the heartbreak.

It's no small wonder he hasn't taken to drinking. 

Again.

 Pretending not to notice naps is easier than pretending not to notice the island's only licensed nurse practitioner hungover the clinic reception desk or slung over Bennie's bar on a Tuesday at 10 in the morning. 

We've left those days behind us, and that's where we'd like them to stay, especially during jellyfish season. Tom is especially good at treating those stings; some homemade remedy Pow-wow Pete taught him long ago. 

When Tom is off duty, the shifts are filled with interns whose only real helpful knowledge is how to get in contact with Tom and where to find a magazine while you wait for him. 

"Real" doctors never come out to the clinic and the hospital is thirty miles down the single lane umbilical cord connecting the island to civilization .

This week's worth of naps have Tom looking almost rested. If one didn't know better, they might even think Tom was happy behind those sparkling eyes. But, if you know about Tom's naps and you know about Tom's smoothies, then you also know enough to realize that Tom will probably never be happy again.

Not the way he used to be, anyway.