Divided loyalties

The tide happens regular as clockwork twice a day, but standing in the dusk at the end of the land with salt marsh and harbor in a great arc in front of me, the ritual seemed invested with portent, for the oceans are sickening, and the great commerce of the mud and the grass and the rich water may be on borrowed time, though the brokers and buyers may not know, even suspect it.

Apart from the chitter of evening birds whooshing overhead, and the grawk of the heron flying away from its post on the edge of sand, the only sound is the lap of the tide coming in. Sky, sea are silvery blue but the lower partner seems to be welling up like an emotion to make small inarticulate gulps and heaves against the unprotesting shore.

Excess heat generated by our activity is being absorbed, in part by the oceans, as  is some portion of the carbon dioxide our activties release. Warmer, sourer, the ocans are becoming less and less hospitable to its inhabitants. More and more will fail to thrive. Collapse may occur in half a century or sooner.


Still, the question on my mind is the 2nd person bias of the blog. Who or what am I addressing but the plenitude itself, the great dance of sea and shore under the baton of the moon--see up there? A solemn moment in the gathering dusk, but is writing about it as an observer, but then adding 'you' may seem a bit forced, a wrench of perspective to make the event fit into my model of encounters as 2nd person occasions.

And yet not. After all, the sea and I are related, our futures linked. Marine forms of life from crabs to birds to fish have been very palpably present to me these last days on the Cape. The eagerness of mollusks to suck down the infusion of nutrients borne in this breasting tide is evident; there they are underfoot: the live ones squirting and the dead ones, crunching. The whale bones, white and bleaching by the path, were once vital harvesters of the sea's abundance.

Even if the turn to 'you' from first or third person happens to be less than fully heartfelt, it does represent an acknowledgement of, what, the space open in relationships for a kind of loyalty, however thin and qualified. In fact, it seems to me, on reflection, that part of the risk of any encounter is this addition of one more to our set of already divided loyalties. Part of living a life of encounters is managing the moral pulls toward multiple 'yous' without betraying any. Naturally, we'll fail sometimes, but that's implicit in the project.

A direct encounter allows one to be loyal to the Other in the midst of an occasion right here, right now, but to report on, reflect in public on, an encounter is another division of loyalties: to the Other and to the audience. Both must be honored somehow.

As a teacher of business people practicing English, I've become acquainted with the literature of those who advise people with multiple bosses, multiple missions, multiple clients (and families to boot) in a high-pressure environment. Recommendations: compartmentalizing decision, setting priorities, trying to homogenize interests, setting up systems of checks and balances. Perhaps most important is the recognition and acceptance of the plural nature of the world we find ourselves living in. A life of encounter involves that.

The intense beauty of the classic evening on the shore along with the dread of the sickening sea are part of the encounter I had, part of the augmented sense of urgency that I feel to preserve you, oh plenitude, in your full livingness. Yes, I must pack, drive, work, and so on, but an encounter has occurred, and I don't want the moment to be forgotten.