Salt Water
My roommate has a perfectly minimal, slightly faded, image of the ocean cropped in a circle against white matting, in a gold frame hanging on the wall. Thoughtfully penciled beneath is the following quote from Isak Dinesen:
The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea.
The picture is tucked away on a wall behind one of the many, very healthy plants growing in the living room, and I didn’t even notice it until a few weeks ago. In seeing and reading it, I stopped, I paused, and I put it in my pocket as something to hold onto when things feel overwhelming or fuzzy.
Sweat.
Tears.
The Sea.
As I navigate life, one day, one moment at a time, each of these three things have proven to be the best, and necessary, form of release, of letting go. It may be more accurate for me to replace ‘sweat’ with ‘getting off my butt and doing something’, but either way it’s the movement that counts, physical or mental, creative or work oriented.
The tears come as they please in a way that still surprises me, but they are welcome, and I am learning to let them be, not apologize, and not be concerned with them showing up even in unusual settings. (Sorry random people on the beach that walked past me as the floodgates of my eyes spilled over my cheeks and made my face rosy and eyes puffy from the emotions. Wait, I mean, sorry, NOT sorry. I’ve still got a ways to go on that whole not apologizing thing.)
Oh, the sea, the sea, the beautiful, marvelous sea. I can’t seem to get enough of it being back in California. Though the weather and the water are becoming cooler, I find reasons (or no reason at all) to jump in, even with my clothes on. It’s there, I’m there; what do I have to lose? I’ve gone to the beach almost everyday, orienting my life around being near the water (or in it apparently). Popping by to watch the sunset, Tuesday walks along the strand, fall beach days with loved ones pretending summer hasn’t ended, (trying to) surf either solo or with students turned friends. Nothing feels more refreshing than diving fully in and then letting the sun warm my bones afterward.
This past Sunday night I just got back from 8 days with work, managing a camp for Project Koru with a group of adult cancer survivors. To be honest, I was anxious about going to lead this staff and 15 participants. As only 1 of 3 non-cancer survivors there, I already am thinking about how to be intentional and mindful in the ways that I show up in these spaces, as they are not meant for me. They are intended to be a safe, inviting, supportive environment for the participants to connect, feel empowered, and to know that on what can feel like a very lonely and isolating journey, they are not alone. It is imperative that I pay attention to this in being invited into the camp experience.
However, as the camp manager, I was not only thinking about my presence, but also the responsibility of overseeing all of the logistics, supporting staff, and paying attention to each aspect of camp as a whole. This takes acute attention to detail, extreme organization, awareness of self and others, delegation, compassion, a positive attitude, confidence, energy, and so much more. With life, as it is at this point, I find myself second guessing so much of who I am, where I am, how I am, and the unfolding of it all. I was so nervous and unsure about being in this type of role out of a fear of disappointing others, and I think even more, of disappointing myself.
I’m still recovering from exhaustion and lack of sleep, but I can wholeheartedly say that I did it (because of an incredible team and participants), and it was good. And it was an honor to serve in that role and it was surprising to find myself come alive, to be carefree, to be silly and to dance and to play. (Yes, we did get almost everyone to participate in a talent show—challenge by choice—and it literally made my week and made my stomach hurt from all of the laughter!)
There couldn’t have been more of a mix of sweat, tears, and the sea than the past 8 days spent at camp. We all literally sweat the entire time from heat and humidity, and from walking, exploring, and playing. Even before the participants arrived, tears were ever present amongst the staff, which was new for some and usual for others. The tears flowed from named wounds and fears, from vulnerabilities, from pain, from grief, and also from joy. This carried over into our connections with the participants throughout the days and the week, especially at campfire. Like the waves of the ocean, tears ebbed and flowed in natural rhythm with the swells of rest and release.
To be in Maui is to be one with the sea. Camp is tucked away on the sea, apart from any large resorts or towns. Each day we drove our “middle-aged” minivans, packed in like sardines, following the naturally carved curves of the coastline to surf or see other parts of the island. The ocean surrounded us and brought abundance and healing. We all surfed its waves, paddled against its currents, submerged in its refreshing goodness.
One of the most incredible days was spending a morning with a Native Hawaiian elder, Uncle Kimokeo, who has dedicated his life to preserving and sharing Hawaiian culture. A deeply spiritual man, from the moment Uncle Kimokeo met us, there was a feeling of reverence and awe, that God was near and it was impossible to not pay attention to the movement of the divine. We listened and echoed his chants and songs in Hawaiian and followed his direction, taking us on a small 2 mile voyage across part of Maui’s ocean. Partway through our paddle in the middle of the sea with no explanation, he commanded, “LAVA!” (for us to stop paddling) and “Okay, now you jump in.”
“Jump in. Go. Get in.”
Most of us quickly dove into the depths. Others were nervous, either not being strong swimmers or being petrified by open ocean or wondering if they were strong enough to tread water or get back in the boat. One person clung to the side of the boat, wanting so desperately to join the rest, but crying out of fear and anxiety of what it would mean to actually let go and trust.
In the blink of an eye, mid-tears, she took a breath, put her feet against the side of the boat, and pushed herself away as hard as she could, forcing herself to be at the mercy of the sea and at the grace of her bravery.
She let go.
We all watched in wonder and amazement, at first in silence, and then in celebration, cheering her on.
It was breathtaking. It was inspiring. It was unforgettable.
While in the midst of the open, blue sea, Uncle Kimokeo told us to grab hands, make a circle, and with each phrase we repeated after him in Hawaiian, to all go underwater. It was an expression of thanksgiving coupled with a baptism, a cleansing, a renewal with each gratitude we expressed for the land, the sea, each other, for God. Three times we did this and then just as quickly as we were commanded to jump in we were commanded to get back in the canoes.
(And if you were wondering, yes—treading water while holding hands with a group in a circle for 5 minutes is very difficult. Annndddd it’s possible that I wasn’t quite treading water and intentionally submerging myself as much I was either half drowning and choosing to either fight it by trying to keep my feet moving underneath me, or taking a break and then sinking beneath the surface. Don’t worry—we all made it back into the boats alive, only partially waterlogged.)
As one of the final moments together after landing on shore, Uncle had us wade into a shallow Native Hawaiian fishpond and take a seat on the perimeter wall, which was formed by lava rocks stacked high above the tide creating a place to easily fish. All lined up, Uncle Kimokeo went down the row asking each person their name, speaking a blessing over us individually, pouring the precious and clean saltwater over our heads. As he blessed us, the water went from being calm to sets of small waves rushing in and splashing against our backs, demonstrating physical power to match the spiritual power that was felt in that moment. We each received the gift that Uncle had given us, in whatever place we found ourselves literally or figuratively. Some people wept, some were quiet, some kept their eyes squeezed shut while others grabbed the hand of the person next to them. Like in a moment of taking a deep, intentional inhale followed by a slow, intentional exhale, again, there was a release, a letting go.
I cant’t begin to tell you how much sweat, tears, and the sea were experienced at camp or have become integrated into my day to day life. But I can begin to tell you that they have felt like a cure, maybe only for the length of a quick breath, or for a few hours; within each, I found glimpses of healing, of okay-ness.
And most of the time, they’ve been shared with those around me, whether intentional or purely circumstantial, at just the right time, in just the place.
As we are ushered into the holiday season, I am choosing to be present and to be grateful. The holidays are filled with so much for so many, myself included. As I pay attention to how I am doing and what I am feeling, I want to also be open to being in the moment, to gratitude and to joy, even in small ways, because those are the gifts that carry me, carry us through. I have made it to today, because of grace, because of community, because of goodness and unfailing love, and I am so very thankful.
To any and all that are experiencing a heaviness this holiday season, please know that you are not alone.
To any and all that are feeling especially lighthearted and full, please share your abundance with someone who may need it.
To any and all that have chosen to pay attention to the people and the world around you, to offer kindness, acknowledgement, support, a safe space, especially for those that have done so for me, thank you. It may seem little, but it is big. It is a reminder that there is a safe harbor in the middle of a storm.
Oh dear friends, in the moments that it may feel like too much, take a deep breath; it is a reminder that you are here, you are alive, and so am I. Dear friends, in the moments when you don’t know what to do, remember the sweet healing and release that comes from salt water: a good cry, a good laugh, leaning in to put in a little emotional, physical, or relational time, and the promise of the sea—the waves will come and they will go and we do our best to be in it, learn from it, and move through it. For it is a wild ride, but a wildly beautiful one if we can just hold on and hold each other.