Written by Gene Cashman III
Photography by Ed Funk
had tossed and turned all night long. For the life of me I couldn’t fall asleep. As dawn approached, I finally decided to get up and start the day, even though the weight of a sleepless night hung around my eyes, head and shoulders. I was tight, my joints stiff and had there been anyone awake to interact with me, I would have been, undoubtedly, irritable as well. Yet, a distraction from my gloomy disposition presented itself. A dim light had begun to emerge, revealing a misty November morning. It was the perfect setting for a paddle on the river to get my blood flowing.
The orange ocean kayak was loosely lashed to a rickety cleat with a lazy figure eight knot. A long paddle was crammed into the narrow cavern of the slender craft. The residual water from the previous day’s excursion chilled me as I slid, somewhat awkwardly, into my seat. The boat rocked side to side as I jammed my hips and thighs into the small cockpit. I loved the boat and its close proximity to the water, but always felt like a summer sausage crammed into a child’s toy kazoo each time I got in the darn thing. After a few moments of touch and go balancing I righted myself and put paddle to water.
The tide was quickly moving to sea. Slender threads of sunlight were now beginning to drown out the waning moon and dimming stars. By the time I paddled to the oyster factory my body had warmed and I began to forget the aching in my joints and head. I was still, however, very tired. Well, weary, actually. I am not one to complain, but must admit this world and all its misery was beginning to stifle my spirit.
I thought of what ailed me as I paddled. There was a myriad of reasons to be worn out. Perhaps I was listening too much to the non-stop, editorialized, agenda pushing, in your face, the sky is always falling news media. Maybe, it was the fact that my 401K was down or that America had become a giant mall and its citizens the spoiled teenagers that shop there with limitless credit cards. Every citizen a shopper wanting the rewards of vanity but not the consequences that usually come with it. Such thoughts made the pace of my paddle quick and before I knew it I was clear of Potato Island.
I gave one last stroke and let the boat glide in the tidal current. It was the first time I could remember taking a moment to observe my surroundings since I shoved off. The most magnificent sunrise was rapidly layering color to the eastern sky. There were blues, oranges, reds, purples and yellows all intermixed around a blinding white ball of light rising out of the darkness. “Oh my soul, rejoice!” I said aloud as I took in the sight. “I am such a fool forbeing lulled to sleep, into false depression by this decayed world.” I was now speaking confidently to the morning tide, refreshed and renewed.
The new sun felt good against the coolness of the morning. I was awake, in more ways than one. I paddled the kayak to a sliver of sand exposed, mid-river, by the retreat of water. I unbuttoned a clip on my lifejacket and took a sip from the thermos I’d brought along. I knew, at the same moment, the news media was still stirring fears, my 401K was still down and that the country was still operating in uncharted social, economic and political waters, but unlike an hour or so before, I felt unburdened.
That morning’s sunrise had been a monastic reminder, an ecclesiastical epiphany if you will, of who I am and where I should be going. That brilliance was a sign in the wilderness pointing me back to real life. In other words, it reminded me that there are many things in the world I cannot do a thing about -- well, except to pray.
I believe in that sort of thing. I also believe that becoming angry or disillusioned by the events in this decayed world doesn’t mean one should look to escape it, to run away from what frustrates. Personally, that sort of action would, in essence, defeat my own personal mission. A mission that may be the only thing-outside a conversation on predestined action-I have any real control over. What, might you ask is that mission? Well, it’s really the message of Easter -- that through the Easter story we all can have hope in a fallen world.
I laughed at what I was thinking. It was paradoxical on a cultural level, but it was real in my heart- reflecting upon Easter at Thanksgiving, that is. It was then that I began to realize that the tremendous hope found in the Easter message was what I was truly and utterly the most thankful for in my own life. Not a hope in government, money or politics, but in something much more profound, at least to me.
My paddle back up the brackish waters of the May River was casual and relaxed. I soaked in the glorious sights of nature. The river, marsh and woodlands are, to me, spectacular in the fall- every bit as exquisite as the summer and spring. I felt rejuvenated and for the first time in weeks, at ease. I knew that I would walk back into a busy house, bustling with the activities of morning. The television would probably have a talking head droning on about some inane point. I would find bills in the mailbox and unhappy, hurting people at work.
Yet, on that particular morning and on that particular day I resolved to turn off the television, to worry less about the bills and to make a difference, in any way possible, in someone else’s life. This year, or any year really, Thanksgiving shouldn’t center on thankfulness for what one materially possesses, but rather what one can do to impact the life of someone devoid of hope in this devastatingly cruel world. There is nothing more important, especially in this new age -- an age that despite of all of its advancements, is so void of hope for millions upon millions of people. Think about the both the thanks and the giving partof “Thanksgiving,” but most importantly think about real hope, not hollow political promise.
Imagine what that world might look like -- heaven on earth? Maybe so.
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