A midnight vigil at a new helm.

Every helmsman learns how her ship moves. She learns it's feel from the wheel: how the waves move about her ship, how the wind in the sails push and pull, the ebb and flow of the tide, the deep and the shoals and maneuvers her craft accordingly. What happens when the ship is changed out? The nuances of the of old craft are null and void. It is a different voice, a different way of moving that requires study and listening of the most intense kind and hoping that old knowledge does not fail you. Every ship has a different voice and manner of cutting through the waves.

Here I am in the ocean in a larger craft. I can't rely on the knowledge that I aquired of the smaller cutters that I have been sailing in for most of my life. I now have a  Spanish Galleon. They sail differently and I am left at the helm with no stupivision and no manual. I am left to my understanding of how helms work, star patterns above me and how the ocean moves beneath me, but it is simply not enough to call myself a master of my ship any longer. I have obviously been tossed out into the deep in a craft, even though sea worthy, unfamiliar to me. I guess it's time to use the finer tuned listening skills that I have honed over the years and hope that I have not been steered astray.

I have spent extra time on Kala exercises and iron pentacle to help me listen clearly, but as I am left by myself for the first time in a larger craft in unfamiliar territory I have to question every move and every course correction. I second guess everything and have to look like I know what the frak I am doing or those who are in my charge lose it. Nothing matters more at this point than a confident facade and I hope that I am fooling enough of the people at this point to get through the first vigil in the middle of the night with out an insurrection.

Holy Gods of the sea, help me steer this craft with intelligence and skill for this be a new helm to me and the secrets of this craft be still a mystery.

Ho o'pono pono Amene!
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