The fish in my house distract me from the fish in my blog.
No, we don’t own any of the real creatures anymore; my best efforts around those watery pets years ago were dismal. I intend to write about the more recent discovery, though, of entire biologic communities thriving in extreme darkness under the crushing pressures of the deep sea. It’s an interesting romp, reading about the newly identified fluffy sponge crab, the bioluminescent sea worms that emit bluish-violet light, and the rose-veiled fairy wrasse–a reef fish that comes in a stunning pink–but soon, I stall out.
I pad into the kitchen to see what Husband is cooking up for the family reunion this weekend. He shoves a savory snack mix around on hot baking sheets with a silicone turner. Oyster and Ritz varieties turn golden, and because I’m thinking of sea life today, of course there are goldfish crackers in the recipe too.
I gaze around the house. Our girls each wear three permanent fish drawings on their skin–matching sister markings. The trout represents Flicka, the tuna is Ricka, and the anchovy’s for Dicka, which makes me recall the day a few months ago when somebody I gave birth to asked what my sign was. In our house, we’re clueless about such things.
“I’m a Pisces,” I said because I only know that much–and that it’s a fish.
Ricka’s eyes widened. “Oh, I thought it was pronounced Piskiss.”
Somehow it leads me to think of the French word, pécheur, and how it means both sinner and fisherman. And I think of Jesus calling his followers to him–how they were both those things at the very beginning.
I have the calling on me too, and I’m not so different from my ancient brothers and sisters, minus the fishing part. And there’s that familiar undercurrent, pulling me now.
I open the Book. My bookmark, made from a photo of koi Flicka snapped at Como Zoo, holds my spot. “You’re the shiniest fish in the ocean!” she wrote on the back for me, but I care more about the crashing waves opening to me in the pages on my lap. No more disjointed thoughts about aquatic creatures; no more distractions over crackers or tattoos or the world’s signs.
Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.
And I swim down as far as I possibly can.
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