When did you know there are no lines? We call them lines because such definition along some straight, curved, or jagged edges convinces us of some geometric substance. But lines are merely where one thing ends and another thing begins.
Miss Bush, my geometry teacher, said a line was where one wall met another at the corner. As I look up from my notebook, I can see one of the big lines where sea ends and sky begins or nearer where sea ends and shore begins. They are evident because they are different colors, different textures. If I went down to the beach, I could not find a line, nor an end to pull on. It is just a meeting of differences.
As I look at the sea, waves lapping on shore, I see momentary lines. Water is so difficult to describe because its constant movement shifts shadows and reflections of light as it rises and falls. We call them ripples, jagged slate, or pewter scales, fumbling to catch an image already gone. Each peak of fluid rises catching light one one side, shadow on the other, lines appearing and disappearing, sometimes looking like a thousand pewter fish just below the surface or like the black backs of sharks, their fins breaking the surface.
But there are no lines in waves breaking on shore, just crests of water dividing shadow and light, falling over themselves, white crinolines dropped upon a darker underside.
Artists talk about lines, line drawings, outlines, but the line is the dust from soft lead pencils ending and white paper beginning, rose madder up to this point and cerulean blue from there on.
We use lines to divide and order time, to divide and order spaces. We draw lines on calendars, marking the end of Monday and the beginning of Tuesday as if one day did not seep into the days that follow or into the rest of time, for that matter. We sometimes hope that line between Thursday and Friday could be a dam against Thursday’s happenings cascading into Friday, but lines are more symbol than reality.
Man created lines of longitude and latitude to find things. These lines are scribed on globes and maps, but are nowhere to be found as we traverse the earth. There is salvation in knowing where we are. Man created these virtual lines on the earth to locate himself, to place himself in the world and to help others find him if he needs help or gets lost. But one does not trip over these lines as one goes from place to place. Lines are a tool we use to order our world.
When flying in an airplane we see lines—roads, rivers, railroad tracks, canals, furrows in field, ruts in snow or mud, ski trails—connecting one thing to another. From a distance, they can look like lines, but up close they become three dimensional, they become passageways from one place to another, connections between separate places. They can be life lines, mooring lines, or paths on our journey. Lines connect the dots, connect people, connect places. It is easier to draw a straight line if we know where it ends, but knowing where it ends, aye, there’s the rub.
There are lines that cannot be seen, but are sometimes identified by a wall or a fence, like a lot line around private property, or a boundary of a state or country. These lines are symbols of sovereignty, of the separation of what’s mine and what’s yours. These lines should not be crossed except with permission. There is an understood line haloing each individual. This line, too, denotes sovereignty and should not be crossed without permission. Trees even respect each other’s space in their canopies. Trees whose foliage is of similar height do not encroach on the branches of other trees. Respect is shown for other trees’ space.
Lines connect, divide, order our world, lessening chaos, maybe restraining entropy, even though we often can’t see them, we don’t trip over them. Just because lines cannot be touched or seen doesn’t mean they are not important.
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