WAVES

A couple things I noticed about waves on my recent trip to the ocean:

1. Even the small ones make a noticeable splash at their breaking point.
2. The deeper you go, the less they push you around.
3. They don’t look or feel nearly as rough when you’re riding them.
4. Some days they’re a lot bigger than others.

I know. Not rocket science.

But waves are on my mind, and not just because I miss the salt they splash onto my lips. (I do love those ocean-salty lips.)

Today Miss Sarah and I talked about waves. Actually, we’ve talked about waves a lot these past few months. It’s not my favorite topic. It would be a lot more fun if we were talking about floating on our backs under a deep-blue sky, with the warm ocean waves gently rocking us back and forth.

…

(Sorry. Wandered off for a minute, remembering that feeling.)

No, we haven’t been talking about little azure-colored waves lapping at the shore. We’ve been talking about big, black, scary waves of pain. Waves of grief. Waves of fear. Waves of anger. And how to survive them.

A few months ago, I was hit by a monsoon and nearly drowned in the raging waves. I was gasping for air, literally. As I floundered, Miss Sarah tried to assure me that although these waves were powerfully strong, and one on top of the other, they would not always pound so hard or so relentlessly. She said there would eventually be some ebb and flow—some of the waves would spread further apart with more space in between; some would be shorter, or not as strong. She said that each wave that passed was getting me closer to calmer waters.

And she started teaching me how to ride them.

I’ll just be clear that I did not want to learn to ride them. I still don’t. I want out of them. But it quickly became quite clear that my options are to drown or learn.

Actually, that’s not true.

There are other options and I’ve taken them before.

I’ll vulnerably admit that I lived much of my life in some sort of denial or ignorance that these types of waves even existed, much less that riding them was an option or that their coming and going was normal and usually not even in my control. I mean, I’ve had other monsoons in my life – no question – but at other points I think I somehow managed to run away from the water altogether. I hid, or pretended the feelings weren’t there, and lived in terror of being swept away if I actually let a wave touch me. At times in my life, I thought waves of anger or sadness equaled hopelessness, terror, sin, depression, failure, even death.

I could still do that – run from the waves – and, believe me, it’s tempting. On more than one night the thought of drowning in a bottle of wine has sounded preferable to riding these frickin’ waves of grief and pain. I remember well how to shut off these feelings, disengage, live through the motions and rely on some mind-numbing “prayer” to escape.

But I think I was wrong before. Waves do not equal death. I think maybe even the opposite is true. When I bottled up the waves or ran away from them completely, huge parts of me died, and it’s taken years to bring those parts back to life.

I don’t want that again.

Which leaves me with two lousy options: Drown, or learn to ride the waves.

*sigh*

Now you know why waves are on my mind…

by julie rybarczyk