The sea is His for He made it….

And so the day begins in turmoil and a weary sadness with the recitation that the sea in all her power, storm, unpredictability … all her turmoil … is his. Not the sea in its vast, hypnotic rhythmical beauty, not the romantic sea of Rimbaud that along with the sun forms that shimmering eternity, not the sea of the Caribbean sunsets, but the sea as the metaphor of all that is destructive, threatening; of all that pulls like the outgoing tide on the spirit of the human; of all the on rushing waves that thrash the shore and erode the beachheads of safety and life, dignity and integrity.

The sea along with her internal correspondent the circulatory system -- heart, blood, veins and arteries, the pulses and arrhythmias – God damn it! I say.

In any regard, or maybe obviously, the poverty gains a hold, a poverty that we seemed to be sneaking away from despite even the constant demands of the treatments. But all of this the psalmist says is his: God is the river (or the sea) we float in … or drown in ala Virginia Woolfe. As everyone knows, we are alone (Ravelstien): the psalmist’s near whisper, the purling assertion,we are not alone … though maybe no one is certain. Despite the orthodox expression of the denial of Patripassianism, the turmoil and weary sadness has been brought into the heart of God vis-à-vis Incarnation.