The Hole in the Rock

by Terri Glass

The sunlight is only reaching a corner of the porch. It is 10 am. It is now the fall of sunlight, the last glimpse of fuscia, the golden turning of leaves. The air retains a coolness even though the forecast is in the 90's today. What turns in me is something ancient, cryptic, hieroglyphic. I barely understand the language, although I feel the faint lettering inscribed into the lining of my veins. It is pulsing, staccato like. I realize that part of me has been mute to its existence. The part that feels like a dead snail shell. Maybe I could take that part of me to a place I call the hole in the rock.

The whole rock. This place is located at the very southern end of Rodeo Beach. One day, the tide as low enough to hike 3/4 mile down a sandy and rocky stretch all the way to this large rock with a perfect arch that exposed another view to the sea. When we arrived, the tidewater receded enough for my friend, Peter to venture out through the hole. My neck cricked as I watched him disappear. I stayed on the rocky ledge afraid of surprise attack surf. But the fact we made it to that edge of beach amazed me. I had never caught the tide that low. To the hole, to the golden gate passageway, to the other side of eternity.

Beauty and complexity. Beauty and simplicity. The surf flows through, the surf that carved the hole in the rock. The water spills from one side into another like a whisper that goes from the ear into the center of the brain. This is where the starfish cling, their rays pointing in all directions. This is the beginning of fall, the subtle passageway into darkness, the sublime harvest, the building of protective layering to keep out the cold.

The code is ancient, the code has a reason. Hieroglyphs dance over the waves, carve letterings into the rock with a hole. From far away, a lone seagull suspended on a billow of wind, spots this with eaglelike clarity.