For part of chilly February afternoon, a chunk of the frozen bay perilously perched itself by the edge of the sea.
It held my attention, this lifeless form, a half ton of water balancing on a small pedestal.
Our minds create stories upon stories, stories that help us survive, help us live, but stories are just that, and the intensity of my interest at this random block of broken berg makes little sense.
Rationally, I know that this is just chunks of ice from the fresh Delaware River above, coalescing from the forces of the tides, but it became my altar of unhewn stone, an evanescent idol.
|Delaware Bay, North Cape May, February 22, 2015|
We worship patterns, and see gods where none exist, but our stories have been, until now, based on the larger world around us.
We let others manipulate us and our children, replacing our stories of nature with the stories of the abstract, of global economies, of currencies, of hubris. We encourage our children to play with the screens that distort and manipulate our view of the world.
And then we wonder what's wrong with them.....