The emotional turmoil of the global pandemic and its implications on my life and the rest of earth’s citizens hits me in waves.
Sometimes it’s as if I am sitting on a beach, wearing a mask, almost blissful. But other times the swell has tossed me upside down. I inhale saltwater, not knowing which way is up, at risk of drowning in the shallows.
I find myself pulling back my toes from the water as it ebbs and flows. Sometimes turning my back on the ocean completely, to find solace in the smaller bodies of water that hold the laughs of friends and the reflection of stars.
In reality, I know the ocean continues to roll in the distance, but when I drive out of cell service or pick up a fantasy novel, I can tuck away the immenseness of the unknown and the oscillations of hope and grief, and just enjoy being alive.
I can sit around a fire, look up at the stars, swim in a lake during a torrential downpour and not think about anything but the magic.
I can make space to be grateful.
For my blood family and my chosen family.
For my health.
For my freedom.
For my job.
For good stories.
For clear lakes.
For puppy snuggles.
For neighbourly smiles.
For ice cream and pie.
For peaks and valley views.
For old trees.
For shooting stars.
For all of the things that keep me afloat when I go back to reality and emotional waves pull me out to sea.
I can distance myself from always trying to figure things out. From the feelings of helplessness.
From being run aground by circumstances beyond my control.
I can heal, accept and grow.
I can come back with an fully inflated life jacket that will carry me through the next few weeks, before I need to briefly turn my back on the ocean again.
I’m not running away. I am gathering supplies for survival. And I hope you make time to do the same.