Tragic Hero

An old man by the sea watches the waves come in and swarm his ankles. He leans on his staff and memorizes the silver sea that he's memorized before, as it rolls and teems within his own, teeming, silver eyes. 

I ask him, "What must I do, Father?"

"Why call me Father?" he says, not looking away from the sea. "And what must you do? You must give yourself permission to be part of this world. Do not stand on a rock of your own making and weep your misfortunes. Do not build your own monastery and lament your unworthiness. Do not erect a castle and fill it with self-pity. Do not separate your suffering from the suffering of the world." He looks at me then, and I know our conversation is short. "You are no tragic hero," and he smiles. "No drama unfolds with you as its center. Look to the sea. Look to the waves. Look to heaven, as a great dance pulses and which all must someday give account, for the joyful are not incidentally drawn to its perfect meridian." 

I join him in his gaze across the sea, but it will not be long until we go back down into the village where soon they will begin dancing. Arm in arm. 

"We've stayed too long," he whispers, turning away. "Do not be alone for too long. Just long enough to see the meridian. Just long enough."