On the Salish Sea, today, something is coming undone. Something that came in as a wave but stayed, for a while. The people on this stretch of sea tried to push it back, like a beached whale, but not the natural kind; overstaying its welcome, it was.

We are as visitors on this land. At times, unexpected. Sometimes, uninvited. People came, to make their stake on this land in one of these casual seaside houses. Where the ocean beats the shore and the Wildlife Reserve rests next door.

They thought they could make it grand. More grand than Mother’s hand. That which already is. Already was, created. They expounded and pounded. Nails in decking and concrete blocks with masses of dusty dirt, building wooden walks over shrubs and grasses and tiny jewel-like things living in-between the sandy soil tillage. The house they bulged to its fullness, sides expanded with grandeur, leaving no room for the living to roam. Devouring, they stood. Towering. Wanting more. More than beauty.

Others, the neighbours, were stare-eyed, then insulted, perturbed and disturbed by this circumstance that some called chance. Mocked arrogance. They spoke amongst the noise. Deaf ears heard not a word. They ignored. Blatant things came more and more. They overlooked. The obvious wouldn’t hide itself. Its bravado basking the seaside with its pride.

They persevered. Which brought them here. To today, the wave going out; it coming undone. They found a way to return the wave to the ocean. Throw back that whale of ill tale. An authority came to their rescue, one that cared for the sea. And another, a friend of the land. That coveted parcel, ‘owned’ by the ‘owner’, that coveted piece, was legally covenanted, by the Province of B.C., piece by piece. Restricted for preservation of its native soil. There was protection. Upon reflection, this surely was a beatitude that God Himself executed.

With the right action, came positive reaction. And today, upon this waterfront stretch, there is a slow, but steady banging. It is not disruptive, as was the case a year ago. It is not vigorous or aggressive or distressive. This banging is the retreat of a wave. The removal of nails from the walkway that hailed itself as great, now doomed to fate. Salt filling its wound.

It is slow and painful.  Painful for the one who built these things; the one now removing them. Painful to the others, waiting and watching, persevering, watching the pouting worker disgruntled while dismantling board by board, looking oh so bored. He is near done. But, yet he left one stretch of mess; part of the boardwalk, half-concocted, delaying its final departure. Sigh. Untidy business, left unfinished.

What will it look like when it is done? That wayward wave gone back to peace. Space. Distance. A breath of fresh air…Wait! The worker takes a break. Is he the one who needs it? How can society claim to be uplifted by the downward trend of ignorance?

Oh, Wondrous Wave that comes from and to the sea! Won’t you splash and wash away my fees! I am free from all these man-made wares of Earth! I want to see your sand stand; that soft road of life that slips beneath my feet as I pace my way to death. I want to see your power rise like that most ferocious King Tide and take back what is yours to your delivery room. Unbirthed. Like it was before. How you forgive us for our deliberate mistakes! Forsaking our deep selves to build petty things on top your shells and call them beautiful. Is there such a beauty as your irresistibility? Pull me into the eye of your hurricane! Till I am not but your servant.