Swells

Healing is not a linear process. It does not follow a clear timeline, or show itself in neat, pre-packaged how-to guidelines for us to follow. For most of us, healing comes like a tidal wave. Initially, we are hit with a force so great it knocks us to our knees and we have no choice but to bend to its ruthless call. And in that moment, when we’re raw and cold and sopping wet from the relentless attack of the sea, we’re actually desperate for it. We welcome it. We need it. But as time goes on, so do we, and those once relentless washes from the sea become familiar and we stand stronger, taller— more sure of who we are. The waves get smaller. They become a consistent ebb and flow of the tide, something we see as familiar. They’re the necessary friend in where we find our footing. But, sometimes, once we’ve let the waves wash over us day after day, month after month, year after year, when we are finally ready to lay everything down and release our brokenness out to sea, there is a swell.

Swells are caused by a difference in winds that aren’t local to the environment, aka: a storm. Typically it causes waves to increase in strength, height and force. For those of us used to the familiarity of a rhythmic tide after we’ve washed away the parts of us we no longer want in our hearts, a swell feels catastrophic. It’s a devastating blow to the security we’ve built for ourselves. At first, I find myself unable to run towards it or away from it, frozen in shock and fear and despair. The intensity of the swell, of this old, ruthless force healing brings, sends me into the same feeling, the same painful agony I felt the first time, and it’s overwhelming. I’ve wondered if burrowing a new home in the sand would keep me safe, or maybe, I could learn to stand strong enough on my own to be able to resist it, making the swells of healing easier to swallow, but I don't think it’s either of those. I think it’s learning to swim. 

As I've grown into adulthood, I’ve noticed I tend to pride myself in being pragmatic, but pragmatism is not my default setting. As a woman with a deep emotional well, pragmatism has been a conditioned and learned response to a relentlessly painful world, and it has been one of the most helpful tools in living a rich and thriving life. Sometimes, I feel the only way to survive in this world is to have a wall around me that is a mile deep and as tall as the walls of Jericho. My internal world is vibrant—rich with hope for love and dreams I still don't know, and fiercely compassionate and empathetic for the people around me. It’s not composed of a simple spectrum of color or linear lines in a rainbow that are easy to quantify and pack away— it’s a kaleidoscope, an ever changing, ever deepening range of emotions with every new point of light that comes through. It can be an overwhelming amount to carry. I’ve learned resiliency (sometimes showing itself as pragmatism) is my greatest friend in times like these. It acts as a true north, a promise, a glimmer of hope that it won’t always be like this. It won’t always feel this hard. When the sand is shifting and the swell is oppressive and the wind is literally knocking me to my knees, I have learned to swim. Resiliency isn't ignoring the swells or the pain, or the despair, or frankly the relentlessness of life—it’s learning to hold the space and weight for every part of my heart and still moving forward. It’s acknowledging and placing every single thought, feeling, fear, and hope and still making time for a walk, a workout or a way to move my body every day. It’s standing in the kitchen, dancing on my own when I notice the deception of despair creeping into my mind. It’s picking up my guitar and my journal and leaning into the process of becoming new, letting the gravity of healing and change pour out from me and onto these pages. It’s clinging to the life jacket in the form of a bicoastal friend that will always make time for me, and takes a prayerful, vested interest in the flourishing of my life. It’s the anchor I find in my family, who holds me in the backseat of the car, and in the most loving vulnerability weeps with those who weep. These people know that when they’re on the outside of my Jericho, the only way through is to see that when I fall apart, when the deepest parts of my heart are bare to them and I am feeling as raw as wind blown winter skin, when that loose, untamed and unpredictable vulnerability bares all, they stay. 

This is what healing does— it asks the most of us from the deepest, most desperately vulnerable parts of our hearts and still requires us to swim in a defiant resilience.

Sometimes swimming in the swell looks like floating, simply keeping our heads above water. Sometimes it looks like swimming back to shore and starting over. Sometimes it feels like drowning. But the thing to remember about swells, is, they are temporary. They are a surge in power from an unexpected storm, and eventually the seas will calm and the tide will return and that ebb and flow you know so well will trickle back over your feet in loving familiarity. This is what healing does— it asks the most of us from the deepest, most desperately vulnerable parts of our hearts and still requires us to swim in a defiant resilience. So, when you find yourself in a swell, as I find myself now, I hope you learn to swim. I hope you get the courage to dive into the sea instead of being a spectator on the sand. I hope you find your life jackets and cling to them with fervent admiration and gratitude and appreciation. I hope you float on the days you can’t do anything else, and you dance on the days when sorrow feels too heavy. The swell will pass, the tide will slow, and eventually those broken pieces of yourself, the ones that feel hard to hold and harder to let go, will float in a peaceful, freeing release out to sea.