I always wondered about lighthouses. They’re designed to warn sailors of nearby shore or of rocks jutting out of the sea, and in that sense, they have saved countless lives. They’re a distant beacon warning and yet beckoning. Imagine being out on the sea and not having seen land for a long time and maybe even wondering if you’ll ever see land again, wondering if you’re lost in the mist.
“Come to me,” the lighthouse beckons in the dark and misty
night, the very lighthouse that is placed there to warn you away from it or to at least
tell you to be very careful where you sail.
But it’s such a bright light twinkling in the cold and wind. Maybe it’s not really there, you think, maybe
it’s just a mirage. “Come to me,” the
lighthouse whispers. Come where you
should not come; go around although you wish to stay.
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| The Pond Island lighthouse. |
Like a Siren from the ancient Greek and Roman myths, the
dangerous and beautiful creatures who lured sailors with their singing to
shipwreck on their island, the lighthouse sings out its song: “Come to me.”
Their song was mesmerizing yet very sad.
If it was heeded, disaster followed.
Even Leonardo da Vinci wrote of the Sirens and their beckoning yet fatal
call.
Or perhaps it’s more like a seductive Selkie of Scottish and
Irish folklore, who enchants the human who captures her but always escapes back to the sea the
first chance she gets when she finds her Selkie “skin.” Perhaps you could look longingly at a
lighthouse, but never quite own that initial burst of light and joy it brings
to you because it washes its affections out to the sea only. “Come to me,” it says, but you must never do
it.
