The Weight of the Tide

The sea does not care for the structures we build to mark our passage. We place stone upon stone, anchoring ourselves to the edge of the land, believing we have claimed a piece of the horizon. But the water is patient. It wears down the granite and softens the sharp edges of our intentions until everything returns to the grey, shifting state of the beginning. There is a particular silence that follows the retreating wave, a moment where the world holds its breath before the next collision. We stand on the shore, watching the foam dissolve, and we mistake this stillness for permanence. We think the lighthouse is the point of the story, but the story is the water that surrounds it, the cold, rising pressure that eventually claims every foundation. What remains when the tide finally reaches the threshold of the door?

Ron ter Burg has captured this quiet endurance in his image titled Corbière Lighthouse in the Early Morning. He shows us how the stone stands against the grey wash of the morning. Does the lighthouse feel the water, or has it simply forgotten how to be anything else?