Do you ever cry when you see an old friend? Tears were streaming down my face when I finally laid eyes on the dark, calm Atlantic.
“Hello, old friend.”
I was overcome with emotion. Salty waves, salty tears. It was a sight for sore eyes, an olfactory rush, a relief, a release. A heart sigh. I needed to see it, smell it, hear it. The saltwater people know what I’m talking about— I could finally breathe.
I believe tears signal something from the soul. A nudge to pay attention, to listen. The last seven months have been tough. There have been hard moments, there have been small, quiet moments. I’ve watched the world and I’ve watched myself.
Ironically, clarity was my aspirational word for 2020 and the proverbial waters have never been muddier. I guess just because 20/20 represents perfect vision doesn’t make it so. Or maybe, just maybe, clarity comes after the muddiest of waters settle.
For months, I’ve had this scene in my head: the crash of giant waves and the rush of a forceful tide that covers the surf and rattles and shifts all the shells in its path. One that is so strong, all you see is bubbling seafoam and the murkiness of stirred up sand.
I keep waiting for the part where the calm tide goes back out— the part where you see glittering light, clear water and the sand floor. Not to mention your own feet. But we don’t control the tides, we just learn to navigate them. Tides are on their own time.
The ocean, like life, is both magnificent and mysterious; dark and light; calm yet tumultuous. In the unknown, in the darkness, is where we learn about who we are and who we want to be. The knowing comes in the rawest of moments. I’m learning a well-lived life is an examined one; we just have to pay attention.
Sometime between March and April, I lost myself for a bit. We were safe, in our home bubble and unemployment slapped me right in the face. I was blindsided and in the chaos of the pandemic I felt everything at once— anger, fear, uncertainty. The next moment I heard a tiny voice that reminded me what comes next may be a Godsend. It had happened a decade ago and I was better for it. But I was still scared.
“Not all storms come to disrupt your life, some come to clear the path.” —Anonymous
I feel such deep responsibility, I always have. For everything and everyone. As a provider, as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, friend. I am all of those things and still sometimes I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. I just know I want to do it all well. To be good. To be enough. I want to know the ending before I begin. I want a map, a destination and a highlighter.
I did what I always do— I got busy (insert face palm). My default is to figure it out, work hard and push through it. When I should be still and listen. So Miss Fix It got busy. Busy with my resume, busy with my portfolio, busy virtual networking, busy figuring out goverment assistance and unemployment, busy making sure all the people were ok, busy with mask-making, busy cooking because we made about 11 million at-home meals. I was the busiest unemployed person I’d ever met, HA!
Unemployment is hard, and I know my situation was easier than most. It made me feel expendable, more like a number than a human. It’s humbling. I wanted to skip to the end and know we’d be ok, but here we are, still somewhere in the middle.
I took a walk one morning by my elementary school, walking through the ghost of my awkward younger self who wondered if she was enough. I needed to remember who I was, to know who I wanted to be on the other side of this. And I felt a little stronger; braver.
I felt grateful for our health. We were in a pandemic but we were well. We would be ok. I realized immediately that my children were watching me. I knew shielding them was the wrong thing, though it’s my instinct to do so. I allow them to see my tears and vulnerability. I share my hurt, but also my gratitude for what matters.
I show them its possible and okay to feel all these things at once. And then I show them how I get back up. I show them I have faith in God, in my gifts, and in myself. I show them love and faith is stronger than fear and darkness. This is a piece of my story but it’s not the ending.
The week of Easter, we saw a mama bunny give birth and saw the babies in her nest, right in front of our house. Nature at work, raw beauty during the season we celebrate renewal and resurrection. I couldn’t help but wonder if the bunnies knew the world they were born into was upside down.
We cancelled a family trip and buckled down. We found small joys in building an outdoor oasis, complete with a tacky above-ground pool and a homegrown dock. We bonded with my brother’s family in those hard days. We missed our family, our friends, our church. There were many meltdowns, but there was also laughter.
We saw tiny miracles and blatant injustice. People losing loved ones. Stories of everyday heroes. Heartfelt encouragement written in sidewalk chalk. Pinpricks of light in a world that had and has been ripped apart.
A neighbor I never met made hand painted one-word signs of hope for people to place in their yards. Oddly enough, mine said “BRAVE.” Everytime I see my sign I’m reminded of my deep aspiration for bravery, and thank God for people like this neighbor who offered her light in this season of uncertainty.
On my walks, I’d see these signs: DREAM. HOPE. LOVE. PEACE. FORGIVE. I’d see American flags and political signs that reminded me of the division. I saw Black Lives Matter signs representing deep pain, a cry from the depths of souls. I’ll never be able to fully understand but my roots tell me I must be a part of the healing.
Somewhere between the virus, the masks, and people shouting about their freedom, I wondered how we got here. I just kept thinking, “it’s not about freedom, it’s about love.”
Salty tears would come during my walks or drives alone. I realized early on a side effect of COVID was crying, whether you had the virus or not.
I’d think of the tides. How do we navigate?
My lessons from this season are the same ones I’ve been learning all my life— just louder. Be still. Listen well. You are enough. You’re strong. Trust yourself. Practice patience and faith. Love one another. Be kind to yourself. Let life unfold and just hang on, sister. The tides will calm and clarity will come.
Another season has ended and we (along with most) started school like never before— at home. New seasons bring new rhythms.
We’ve been able to get out of town for a bit, which has been a welcome change of scenery for which I’m grateful. Seeing the ocean, I immediately saw my earlier vision of the tides, the rushing waters, rattling shells, muddy waters. I think all of these things are what brought the tears to the surface— the lessons, then the strength and knowing.
I’m learning that clarity can come in the wildest of ways in this upside down world. And I know for sure once the sand has been sifted by the waves, the calm, clear waters will follow.
They always do.
