Toes in the Pacific Ocean, off the Oregon coast. Early November. Icy cold water. Clear skies. Bright sun.
“Tomorrow morning we’ll engage in some time of silence and solitude,” explained a mama friend who graciously had coordinated this much-needed weekend away.
I’ll probably spend that time making the November and December calendar for the kids, meal planning, and, and compiling a grocery list, I thought as I listened to her describe hope and vision of the following morning. The weekends that my kids are with their dad I try to capitalize on the precious moments thinking my own thoughts and knock some things off the list. This weekend would be no exception. Gotta get it done.
The morning came and to my delight and surprise, the silence assured me there was enough time. Enough time to think my own thoughts. To spend time listening. Listening to the quieter whispers of my heart, tending to the nudges of my spirit, closing my eyes and turning my face to the sun to capture the rays that I know will soon hide away until early May. By what seemed a miracle – the noise generated by the list of my to-dos from the night before had vanished. In its place, I heard my own breath. Inhale. Exhale. It’s quiet here.
After leisurely moments with my beloved cup of coffee I ventured towards the beach. I walked out in a barefooted homage to memories of a childhood walking over rough roads and rocky paths. My steps are intentional, even-paced, gentle. The tenderness of the soles of my feet is familiar. A fleeting feeling dashes through the soles of my feet and lands in a sideways, crooked grin. “Huh,” I whisper under my breath, wrapping words around a thought I’ve never considered before. My barefoot steps are taken cautiously, intentionally. In the absence of a shoe layer I have to slow down, lest I risk romping on a tiny, but devastatingly sharp rock. Shoeless, my feet are exposed to the Earth. I have to feel her landscape beneath my weight and pay attention to each step, focused on just this one, foundational thing. Just walk, Jenn. I watch the path, barely looking more than one step ahead, navigating across an empty road and past the surrounding vacant homes.
You never know what the November weather on the Oregon coast may be like. Today’s brought an unexpected gift and I welcomed with open arms the salty air and blinding sun rising up over the dunes. I wonder what this time has for me? I thought as I embarked on my unhurried meander towards the water. I open the gate of mental thoughts and emotions, setting free the corralled experiences from the week.
Some joy.
Some sorrow.
A good deal of compassion for the women with whom I spent the previous evening.
We are brave I thought, recalling the details of the stories shared in moments of tender authenticity.
The tide was starting to come in. This particular stretch of beach was new to me and my unfamiliarity with the terrain soon became apparent as I waded into the shallows of a seemingly innocent tide pool. Staying near the edge I paused and looked towards the ocean on my right.
I think God’s heartbeat sounds like the ocean. Somewhat irregular, but strong and steady all the same.
A wave gathers momentum as it nears its breaking point and then rolls in towards my bare toes. I scamper backwards in an effort to avoid water well over my knees and notice the new shells washed ashore. As the water recedes, I turn again and notice that the tidepool is larger than I originally thought. Deciding that the path around the tidepool was too far out of the way I ventured in, pulling my pants up over my knees in a futile effort to keep them dry. Something catches my eye and I pause so that the my movement-triggered ripples subside. There’s a whole sand dollar there at the bottom, with only a small portion of the top broken off. I smirk to myself and say in a whisper, “Some things you only find in the deep.” Reaching in clear up past my shoulder, soaking the front of my shirt, I pick up the whole-on-the-outside-and-a-little-beat-up-in-the-center shell. Earlier on the walk I had found half a sand dollar. Holding that piece next to this new one, my mathematically curious brain wondered, “Which of these is more whole? The one that is broken in half or the one that is whole on the outside and broken in the middle?”
Which is more whole?
I’m struck by the question and follow the wonder-trail deep into the forest of memories of my own seasons of brokenness. I see both types of brokenness in my past. I count plenty of years spent as a whole-on-the-outside sort of shell, holding the form of the original despite the internal brokenness. And certainly, in the season of having my two babies I was broken in half quite literally by two c-sections. And then later during the year of divorce proceedings, again broken in half in brutal ways. Exposed, raw, sharp along the edge.
I wonder how many people also see beauty in broken shells. Or is everyone looking for the shells that are whole? How often do I assess “wholeness” by what I can see on the outside, compared to what is perhaps more obviously broken in half? Which of these shells is more whole? I take them both with me as I walk towards the trail that will lead me back over the dunes, across the rocky path, away from the sea.
As much trepidation that accompanies the unknown, as much as I don’t want to get wet wading into unpredictable waters, the waves draw me in. I don’t rejoice in the wet and the cold. Maybe I will someday, I’m not there yet.
I wade in anyway.
It will undoubtedly be unpleasant, deeper than I thought, colder than I could have imagined.
I go anyway.
I never regret what leads to the ensuing, whole-body chill and the sopping, heavy jeans. Why? I’m not always sure what draws me in.
But I do know, some things you only find in the deep.