Van Morrison wrote, “We were born before the wind, Also younger than the sun, Ere the bonnie boat was won, As we sailed into the mystic.”
I think of this refrain often. It rises unbidden to my mind when I’m trying to make sense of life’s curveballs, when embarking on something new, when grappling with confusion, or when the mysteries of our time on this earth become overwhelming. It grounds me, offering a quiet assurance that I am not the first to wonder, to question, or to sometimes falter in seeing the point of it all.
It is the 18th day of a particularly brutal stretch of cold. Yet, there’s a reprieve: the sun is shining, a hot cup of coffee warms my mittened hands, and my car is a refuge of cozy heat.
It is a Sunday afternoon. I am parked at the wharf, gazing out over the frozen bay, dotted with ice fishing huts. The sky is a piercing blue, and the snow and ice are so blindingly white that the horizon blurs, as if the landscape itself is holding its breath. It is the kind of winter day that could be plucked from a postcard. And yet…
And yet… tears begin to form as I stare out at the frozen expanse.
I come to this wharf often. It is a place my love and I shared—whether in the bright heat of summer or the crisp cold of winter.
In the summer, we came to watch the sailboat races, to see people of all ages casting their lines into the water, to watch the local kids dive into the waves in a ritual of youthful daring—a rite of passage in this place. We’d witness the parade of antique cars cruising by, their proud owners circling the lot again and again, like peacocks flaunting their vibrant plumes. We’d smile at the small children, their faces streaked with ice cream, mesmerized by the vast ocean before them, their eyes wide with wonder.
In the winter, we came to marvel at the ocean’s moods—sometimes tranquil, sometimes tempestuous, sometimes frozen solid—but always awe-inspiring. We’d sit here, side by side, in quiet reverence, letting the stillness of the place speak volumes. We didn’t need words. The magic was in the air, in the rhythm of the waves, in the pulse of life itself.
As I sip my coffee now, I listen to the radio, feeling the weight of nostalgia settle in my chest. Then, inevitably, it happens.
This time, it’s Colin James singing Into the Mystic. If you know the song, you know its soulful yearning, that deep, haunting longing woven through its notes. If you knew my love, you’d know how much he adored this song. If you know me, you’d understand how it stirred something within me long before I ever met him.
“Hark, now hear the sailors cry, Smell the sea and feel the sky, Let your soul and spirit fly Into the mystic.”
How many times did we do just that—let our souls soar, lifted by the music, by the moment, by each other’s presence? Even now, the instinct is there. When I hear it, I’m compelled to spin, arms outstretched, my face tilted up to the sky, as though trying to capture some fleeting glimpse of the mystic that we shared.
And I weep…
I weep for the joy of the music. I weep for the gaping hole in my heart, still raw, still deep. I weep for the love we shared—the blessing of it, the wonder of it, and the heartache of it lost. I weep for the life cut short, the music silenced, the dance interrupted, and for the unbearable weight of loss that somehow coexists with the faintest hope of dancing once more.
“And when that fog horn blows, I will be coming home, And when the fog horn blows I want to hear it, I don’t have to fear it.”
I like to think my love heard that final foghorn’s call, that he is home now, where he belongs. And I don’t think he feared it.
He most definitely “rocks my gypsy soul, just like way back in the days of old.” I am doing my best to magnificently float into the mystic. Some days are nearly impossible, the weight of everything too heavy. But I hold onto our mystic, the beauty of our shared journey, the love that still carries me forward. Our Mystic is on my side.
J LaBrie
#InToTheMystic
#Mystic
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