Comings and Goings

Along the lines of my last post, I want to start a series of posts that foster my love of visual imagery and life analogy. I see life analogies in nature everywhere I look. And they help me swallow life a bit. So, I thought I'd share a few with you.

Today's Analogy: Waves and the constancy of life

Below is a video I took last time I went to Seal Beach (right by San Diego). I feel peace when I stand by the ocean. And I wanted to capture that. If I've figured this whole add-a-video thing out correctly, you should be able to play it. Then, read on.



There's a lot that happens with the passing of time. As each cycle of leaves falling, and snow melting, and seeds sprouting washes over me, I am changed. Little wrinkles by my eyes speak of much laughter enjoyed around kitchen tables. My sun-marked skin tells stories of long summers spent playing barefoot until dark. And the strength of my fingers testifies to hours of practicing harp. "Practice makes perfect," my mother would tell me.

There are sorrows etched into me as well. They are often harder to see, but they are there. They whisper in slicks of water that appear in my eyes more easily than they used to, as I encounter the heartache of others ... because now I know what it is to love and lose. They are in my silence, because I've learned that sometimes the only authentic response to grief is to sit with it, and look at it, and acknowledge its presence. They are in the way I look at sunsets, the way I savor them but weep just a little, knowing that I cannot hold on to time, saying goodbye to today.

And one thing I've learned from these sorrows and joys is that they are constant. Life --if lived--is full of both of them on a daily basis.

How do waves fit in to all of this? Trust me. I'll get there soon. :)

My parents came to visit me a few weeks ago, and before they left, mom told me she wanted to help me make my bed. I'd washed my sheets, but they stayed folded in neat piles for a few days, because -- when I went to make my bed -- I just felt tired of the monotony of it all. We wash things. We dirty them. We clean them. And then we dirty them again. So, when mom asked my why on earth I hadn't made my bed, my response came quickly and honestly, "Because Mom, I'm just gonna have to unmake it again soon." She was amused I think, but talked me into making it. "I know, babe, but trust me, you'll enjoy a made bed anyway." So, we made it. And I have enjoyed my made bed ... even though I'll have to unmake it again in a few days.

So what's the point of all these seemingly disconnected stories?

Well, as I've gotten into the field of therapy, and as I've lived my own stories and the stories of those I'm closest to, I'm struck by how chalk-full life is of comings and goings. Little griefs. Little joys. We say hello and goodbye all the time; they mark our hours and make us human.

And I think that's one of the main reasons I find so much peace standing beside the ocean. Because that's what it does. Water builds and builds and builds, climbing toward the shore, and then -- when it is full to capacity -- it breaks, crashing to its destination. And a little bit of each waves stays on the land, soaks in, depositing its salty story there. But most of it recedes, heading back to where it came from, making room for the next wave. The waves teach me to be at peace in fullness and emptiness, as they surge forward each time without thought of their departure. And they teach me that it's OK, this cycle of birth-and-death-and-birth, of clean-then-dirty-then-clean, of hello-and-goodbye-and hello again. I will strive to continue to stay present in it all, connected to the gravity of life. And I will try to cherish the monotony, because these are the hours.