Into the Waves
The feelings come at me like tidal waves. They are predictable in their regularity, but
not in their intensity.
At times they are wild and forceful and threaten to knock
the very life out of me. They leave vast
expanses of debris in their wake. Perhaps they
could be awe-inspiring from a distance, but up close they are
absolutely terrifying.
At other times they are gentle, rhythmic, calming. The kind whose sounds people play on repeat to lull
them into peaceful slumber.
They are connected to everything, these feelings. Sometimes what they wash up onto my shore is life itself, and sometimes it is decay and death. Sometimes beautiful sea glass with the edges worn smooth, and sometimes lifeless creatures that have been choked by tiny shards of my plastic conveniences.
They are connected to everything, these feelings. Sometimes what they wash up onto my shore is life itself, and sometimes it is decay and death. Sometimes beautiful sea glass with the edges worn smooth, and sometimes lifeless creatures that have been choked by tiny shards of my plastic conveniences.
One thing is certain, though, they will come. With unfathomable force or with calming whisper. These waves of feeling will come.
And not just for this time, mind you. Not just for this strange season of 6-feet-apartness that
makes my extroverted soul ache. Not just for these days of infinite uncertainty and isolation. They
will continue long after all of this has come and gone.
I think it's safe to say that our world is feeling pretty disrupted
at the moment. As for me, I had thus far been able
to arrange my life in such a way that I was able to stay relatively unaware of
just how close to the shore I was residing.
These waves have been lapping and crashing just outside my front door
for decades, haven’t they? But I had
things to do and people to see and routines to follow and social norms to abide
by. I had expectations to live up to and
goals to achieve. I had things.
And now suddenly, I don’t.
I mean I do, of course. I have
privilege and financial stability and toilet paper and hand sanitizer and plenty of books to read. I have health. I have a husband and children and a dog to love and a
home to take shelter in. I have legs that move and eyes that see and ears that hear. I even have, at this very second as I write
this, sunshine.
But I do not have certainty. I do not have peace, at least not often. I do not have a plan. I do not have a color-coded schedule for my children. I do not have the ability to control how all of this will unfold for us. I do not have many of my most beloved distractions from the waves of emotions churning at my shore.
I’m realizing in the midst of all the chaos that this may be the greatest gift that this wicked virus brings to me, to
us.
The spinning
anxiety, the endless but-oh-dear-God-what-ifs, the tears, the desperate
longing for connection that can only be found on the other side of a screen or a sidewalk.
The anger at the unfairness of it all.
The fear for our loved ones and those on the margins.
The anxiety about how long it will last and who will get sick and how we will ever, ever recover.
The sadness of not being able to hug our friends who are struggling and lonely and afraid.
There is just so much to feel.
The anxiety about how long it will last and who will get sick and how we will ever, ever recover.
The sadness of not being able to hug our friends who are struggling and lonely and afraid.
There is just so much to feel.
And irony of ironies, in keeping us socially distant and isolated I believe
that this damn thing might just have the power to bring all of our feelings out of hiding.
It's as though all of us, collectively, are standing on our front porches and waking up to the fact that we live right next to the ocean. The infinitely wild, full-of-life-and-death, deeper than our imaginations, absolutely untameable ocean. It's been right here this whole time, but I wonder if maybe all of this chaos is interrupting us enough that we can actually see it. Feel it. Know its power.
Several years ago I went to Italy with some friends. It almost feels
wrong to think about that now, doesn't it? To remember strolling
casually through the olive groves above Cinque Terre without a care in
the world? My heart aches for that place, those people, their reality
that is quickly becoming ours.
I can still close my eyes and transport myself there, gazing out over a vast expanse of sea and watching frothing waves crash into the shore with enough brute force to destroy anything in their path.
The Mediterranean was wild. Is wild. Will always be wild. And from the walking path far above its shores, this wildness was infinitely calming. I remember pausing in this spot for what seemed like an eternity, beholding the pounding swells and letting their power bring me perspective and peace.
The path does not stay in this place, however. It meanders through vineyards and estates and eventually brings you back down to the reality of the water's nearness. It is here where the peace begins to morph into a gnawing sort of anxiety for me. When I am close enough to the force that it could actually do me harm.
This, of course, is where the locals come to swim. My friends and I watched these scenes unfold in each of the towns we visited, dumbstruck by how casually people played in the very waters that to us appeared menacing, threatening, dangerous.
I thought for sure we were going to watch one of them die right in front of us.
Do you know what the Italians did? Do you know how they "played" in those waves?
The dove straight into them. STRAIGHT INTO THEM.
They paid attention to what the water was doing. They watched the waves crest and crash and push towards them. And just as those waves began to break, as my anxiety as an innocent bystander reached its peak, the swimmers calmly put their heads down and went right into the belly of the beast.
It was something to behold. I wondered how they learned this, to know the sea so well and so intimately that their fear became infused with joy. I wondered how many hours they spent along these shores as children, watching their parents and their big brothers and sisters embrace this wild playground in spite of how dangerous it is and will always be.
I wondered if I could ever find this kind of courage inside myself.
I wonder if I'm finding it now.
I wonder if maybe you are too.
There's something about collective trauma, isn't there? There's something about the fact that all of us are breaking apart. There's something about realizing that these waves are coming fast and furious and they're coming from every direction and all we can really do to save ourselves is dive straight into them. There is nowhere else to go.
As much as I am overwhelmed by loneliness right now, I am equally overwhelmed by the comfort I feel in knowing that all of us are grieving this together. We all do it differently, of course. With different intensity and different layers and different proximity and different pathology. But we're all grieving right now. We're grieving the loss of our loved ones, our jobs, our financial security, our communities. We're grieving the loss of structure and routine and comfort and resources. We're grieving the loss of celebrations and vacations and all of our plans for the immediate future. We're grieving the loss of access to sacred spaces and places.
Whether we have lost these things already or merely fear that we may lose them in the future, there is grief. And for many of us it is not just a wave, it's a tsunami.
As it washes over me, over us, it appears to be stripping so much away. There's not much concern for looking like we have it all together, is there? People seem to be spending less time picking each other apart, criticizing, shaming.
When the water rushes back out to sea, we are combing the beach collecting things like kindness, generosity, humility, gentleness, honesty, compassion. We are helping each other find beauty. We are allowing our pain to connect us instead of drive wedges between us. We are recognizing, perhaps more than ever before, that everyone is doing the best they can with what they have.
And maybe, just maybe, we are starting to tap into some courageous spaces inside of us - individually and collectively - that could bring about the kind of lasting, revolutionary change that we all so desperately need.
I wonder how all of this will feed our creativity. I wonder if we will see the possibility amidst the wreckage. I wonder what else will be revealed as the tide recedes toward the horizon.
For now, all we have is our imaginations. And that's not nothing.
I'm trying to feed this hope and curiosity and wonder, AND I still feel like I'm gasping for air. Today I tried to take the kids to our secret river spot, a space that has been a refuge for us where we could stay away from people but remain connected to the earth's rhythms. As I parked the car in the empty dirt pull-off, a kind gentleman pulled up in an official vehicle and let me know that the river access is now closed.
I couldn't hold back the tears. Please, not this.
Of course I understand. Of course it has to be done. Of course I'm not going to argue with him or disobey the rules that are being put in place to protect us all.
AND.
And an enormous wave crashes over me. I'm devastated. I'm sad. I'm tired. I'm frustrated and confused and anxious.
It's all fair game right now. Those feelings will linger for a while. I will feel them. I will cry and I will write and I will vent my anger into the wind somehow. And then I will start to imagine and go for a run with my family and feel the sun on my face and pretend everything is normal. And then I will get sad again.
The tides will come and go. Some days the sun will barely rise and we will stay in our pajamas and turn on the TV and surrender to the grief wave. Other days we will dig our hands into the dirt and laugh from deep in our bellies and wave gratefully to the sun as it sets on another strange, mysterious day.
We're here, friends. Today, right now, we are here. And I'm so, so glad that we're together in our apartness.
I can still close my eyes and transport myself there, gazing out over a vast expanse of sea and watching frothing waves crash into the shore with enough brute force to destroy anything in their path.
The Mediterranean was wild. Is wild. Will always be wild. And from the walking path far above its shores, this wildness was infinitely calming. I remember pausing in this spot for what seemed like an eternity, beholding the pounding swells and letting their power bring me perspective and peace.
The path does not stay in this place, however. It meanders through vineyards and estates and eventually brings you back down to the reality of the water's nearness. It is here where the peace begins to morph into a gnawing sort of anxiety for me. When I am close enough to the force that it could actually do me harm.
This, of course, is where the locals come to swim. My friends and I watched these scenes unfold in each of the towns we visited, dumbstruck by how casually people played in the very waters that to us appeared menacing, threatening, dangerous.
I thought for sure we were going to watch one of them die right in front of us.
Do you know what the Italians did? Do you know how they "played" in those waves?
The dove straight into them. STRAIGHT INTO THEM.
They paid attention to what the water was doing. They watched the waves crest and crash and push towards them. And just as those waves began to break, as my anxiety as an innocent bystander reached its peak, the swimmers calmly put their heads down and went right into the belly of the beast.
It was something to behold. I wondered how they learned this, to know the sea so well and so intimately that their fear became infused with joy. I wondered how many hours they spent along these shores as children, watching their parents and their big brothers and sisters embrace this wild playground in spite of how dangerous it is and will always be.
I wondered if I could ever find this kind of courage inside myself.
I wonder if I'm finding it now.
I wonder if maybe you are too.
There's something about collective trauma, isn't there? There's something about the fact that all of us are breaking apart. There's something about realizing that these waves are coming fast and furious and they're coming from every direction and all we can really do to save ourselves is dive straight into them. There is nowhere else to go.
As much as I am overwhelmed by loneliness right now, I am equally overwhelmed by the comfort I feel in knowing that all of us are grieving this together. We all do it differently, of course. With different intensity and different layers and different proximity and different pathology. But we're all grieving right now. We're grieving the loss of our loved ones, our jobs, our financial security, our communities. We're grieving the loss of structure and routine and comfort and resources. We're grieving the loss of celebrations and vacations and all of our plans for the immediate future. We're grieving the loss of access to sacred spaces and places.
Whether we have lost these things already or merely fear that we may lose them in the future, there is grief. And for many of us it is not just a wave, it's a tsunami.
As it washes over me, over us, it appears to be stripping so much away. There's not much concern for looking like we have it all together, is there? People seem to be spending less time picking each other apart, criticizing, shaming.
When the water rushes back out to sea, we are combing the beach collecting things like kindness, generosity, humility, gentleness, honesty, compassion. We are helping each other find beauty. We are allowing our pain to connect us instead of drive wedges between us. We are recognizing, perhaps more than ever before, that everyone is doing the best they can with what they have.
And maybe, just maybe, we are starting to tap into some courageous spaces inside of us - individually and collectively - that could bring about the kind of lasting, revolutionary change that we all so desperately need.
I wonder how all of this will feed our creativity. I wonder if we will see the possibility amidst the wreckage. I wonder what else will be revealed as the tide recedes toward the horizon.
For now, all we have is our imaginations. And that's not nothing.
I'm trying to feed this hope and curiosity and wonder, AND I still feel like I'm gasping for air. Today I tried to take the kids to our secret river spot, a space that has been a refuge for us where we could stay away from people but remain connected to the earth's rhythms. As I parked the car in the empty dirt pull-off, a kind gentleman pulled up in an official vehicle and let me know that the river access is now closed.
I couldn't hold back the tears. Please, not this.
Of course I understand. Of course it has to be done. Of course I'm not going to argue with him or disobey the rules that are being put in place to protect us all.
AND.
And an enormous wave crashes over me. I'm devastated. I'm sad. I'm tired. I'm frustrated and confused and anxious.
It's all fair game right now. Those feelings will linger for a while. I will feel them. I will cry and I will write and I will vent my anger into the wind somehow. And then I will start to imagine and go for a run with my family and feel the sun on my face and pretend everything is normal. And then I will get sad again.
The tides will come and go. Some days the sun will barely rise and we will stay in our pajamas and turn on the TV and surrender to the grief wave. Other days we will dig our hands into the dirt and laugh from deep in our bellies and wave gratefully to the sun as it sets on another strange, mysterious day.
We're here, friends. Today, right now, we are here. And I'm so, so glad that we're together in our apartness.
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