Carving

One of my favorite feelings in the world is getting out of the ocean. It’s both a feeling of settledness and survival. The ocean is a wild one, never to be tamed, fantastically unpredictable. To think that I choose to step foot into the salty siren, not actually knowing if I will make it out,  is quite brave. That may sound a little dramatic (and maybe it is), but to think about all that the ocean is capable of and how quickly it shifts and pulls and grows and quiets, it amazes me that not only will I put my feet in, but I’ll fully submerge. That is what I mean by a feeling of survival. 

And just as much as she is powerful, she’s playful. She dances and drifts, somersaults and sways, all to her own timing and rhythm. When we’re together, it is an invitation to do the same—throw care to the wind and go along with whatever comes my way. That is what I mean by a feeling of settledness.

I also love the salt stuck to my skin, throwing my soaked beach hair up, enduring the sea sniffles that are inevitable after being in the water for awhile, and sitting back to experience her from the shore as a new perspective. She always has something to teach me, even when I’m not paying attention.

Have you ever had the opportunity to carve anything or on anything? No matter what you are carving, the better you get, the smoother it becomes. Initially it feels forced, really trying to dig in and use all of one’s strength to get what you want or where you want. I’ve tried to whittle a stick once or twice, usually to roast mallows for campfire s’mores. I suck at it. I hold the stick really tight in one hand and a pocket knife in the other and press super hard in the direction that I want to shave off. By the time it’s done (by “done” I mean I’ve basically given up and there is enough of a point that I make do), it’s typically a slightly skinnier, hacked up end of a stick. Or I’ve broken it completely.

But have you seen a real wood worker? Their hands carve with a hypnotizing finesse. Instead of resisting the wood, they move with it. They determine the direction of the grain and slowly, methodically, intentionally uncover what is beneath the surface to eventually reveal what they hope to find, but never quite what they had planned. It’s co-creating at its finest.

It’s the same with carving on the ocean. Or on the snow. Or on a lake. Or on the street. The tendency of most people is to stiffen up as things move faster or feel out of control; to resist the natural force around or beneath or within. Trying to carve without paying attention to what you are trying to carve on might work for a bit, but typically it isn’t fun and after awhile, one usually gets hurt. That’s because carving isn’t meant to be forced. It’s meant to be a response. 

Recently I’ve had some really incredible conversations with new people, and very unexpectedly. Conversations that are forced are the worst. It’s a missing of each other, often because one or both people care more about their own agenda and opinions then sitting back to listen and then respond. When a conversation is good, however, time sweetly slips away to reveal a connection that is exhilarating and fulfilling, both having been carved and changed a bit by the cooperative presence, the rhythmic response. 

What I love about carving is the freedom that I feel when I do finally submit to the natural elements around me. Taking a deep breath, relaxing, and allowing the board to glide along as it was intended, with my role being to participate instead of dictate what the ride will be. In those moments there is little to no separation between everything. It all becomes one, a creating of music that quiets and swells, evoking sleeping emotions that desire to be released. It’s magic.

I’ve continued to feel grief and sorrow bubble up the past couple of weeks. This is not new for me and continues to be expected, though unpleasant. The feelings don’t last, but they can be very tiring and disheartening. Generally, life is really beautiful and I’m so grateful for how much I’ve grown in the past couple of years. Yet when anyone experiences something like a big loss, there will forever be moments (and sometimes weeks) that touch on the tenderness of the loss and resurfacing some of the sadness of it. That’s actually quite good. It means the heart is open. 

Even still, though I know this to be true, I get very frustrated by it. And I talk about it in therapy almost weekly. Good thing Jessie gets paid to listen to my same complaints over and over again. I don’t know exactly what sparked it, but somehow this Wednesday we approached it in a different way, very organically. Simply put, Jessie pointed out that when we experience something good, inevitably it will be followed by something difficult, uncomfortable, sad, (insert any unpleasant thing here). That’s just life. However, this also means then that good will have to follow afterward. It’s a matter of perspective and gratitude, acknowledging things that are wonderful and that are hard, and allowing for whatever may come next to come next, being present to it the moment and remembering that nothing lasts. Then being invited to find the good to follow once more. 

Being in love is awesome. Falling out of love or losing love sucks. One of amazing conversations I had recently was about just this and how society tends to encourage people to get over heartbreak and move on. That’s too bad though, because heartbreak has an awful lot to teach us and can make us better humans for letting ourselves feel through it. It’s like the carving, you know? Resisting it doesn’t do much for anyone. Leaning into it and releasing to it offers so many gifts that can only ever be discovered by wholly experiencing it all. 

I re-listened to a podcast this week that helps me to understand me better, which is especially helpful when I all I feel is confused by me (which is often). In the podcast they read an excerpt from a short book written by a desert father that touched on the integrated relationship of sorrow and joy. It was shared that sorrow comes in to carve out a deep well in our hearts, making space for deeper and fuller joy. The less we allow sorrow to enter and work, the less room there is for joy. It’s a scary, painful process to trust what sorrow is creating within, but in the submission and participation of it, there is a moving and a flowing that reveals hidden parts of our hearts which expand us and all that we experience. 

I’m learning a lot these past few weeks about leaning into the unknown, submitting to the carving as a co-creation of my heart and life, not being able to control or understand what might be next. It is terrifying and exhilarating, but I don’t think I want it any other way. I’m making a conscious choice to allow sorrow to be the artist that she is and trusting that through this process, joy will be abundant, making room for more and filling in the carved hallows of my heart. 

As I sit by ocean now, sticky with salt, but oddly refreshed, I am so grateful to have access to her. I am so grateful that I’ve learned to slow down and quiet myself enough to listen to what the sea has to share. I am so grateful to be able to swim and play as she dances around me. I am just so grateful. 

And I am especially grateful that the ocean holds as a steady reminder of movement and flow that is also possible within. So today, I choose to submit to the carving as a co-creation of my heart and life, trusting that the ride, though never predictable, often risky, rarely comfortable, will be worth it in the end.