Part I. Invisible Currents

When life becomes overwhelming, I tend to slip into controlling armor and robotically project manage life’s little and big miseries. But this approach -of trying to control everything- leaves me exhausted. 

Over time, I’ve learned to instead deploy an internal braking system by asking myself: 

 “Anna dear, can you control the waves?” 

This meditation grounds me, reminding me that I can’t control the waves that greet my shores. Whether they arrive in the shape of a thyroid cancer diagnosis, a rogue car smacking me down in Cairo, or a family member cutting communication, invisible forces drag waves into our bays. 

We cannot control their arrival, frequency or speed, but as the saying goes, we can sure as hell grab a board and surf. 

So if waves are just waves, a natural phenomenon we can’t control but can surf, why then do we still feel ashamed when we face a season of high swells? 

The reality is, regardless of where the waves come from, people flee when our weather patterns become too complicated, like coastal residents evacuating from a hurricane. Hence, it’s hard to make peace with life’s waves or trust that others will stick around with flashlights and sandbags.

Recently, someone I briefly dated had taken a glance at my life’s weather forecast and sheepishly confessed: “I worry about sounding like an asshole… but I just don’t have the capacity for this.” 

Admittedly, I understood I had some unpleasant high tides ahead, including new medical realities, reacquainting myself in a new city, and facing reverse culture shock. But I didn’t feel like these waves were insurmountable. What I saw as mid-sized swells that I know I can surf, albeit I’d get knocked down a few times, he saw colossal cliffs of foreboding doom. 

What does this say about how we read and interpret each others’ waves?  

Part II. Oceanography

Some people are born with a geography that rarely acquaints them with the language of the sea. When they do meet the ocean, their wealth and circumstances cushion them inside yachts. Such folks may experience the feeling of seasickness, bobbing up and down choppy waters, but they’ll never know the taste of saltwater. 

When someone from this type of geographic privilege sees your weather forecast as too much, they lack the understanding of these realities:

1. It’s just a forecast. We never know which waves are actually coming to our shores, and the same goes for them. Their hubris obscures the vision in seeing that they too could have a high surge coming down the pike and that forces like tsunamis are indifferent to yachts.
   
   
2. The tight enclosure of wealth’s vessels conceals distress signals sent from friends and loved ones. How can you know when to jump on a jet ski and ride to those drowning if you can’t hear their cries, if you don’t speak the language of the ocean?
   
   
3. Mastery of surfing demands repetition. Embodiment. Mindfulness. You cannot build the agility and dexterity of surfing inside the dry, warm comforts of a yacht. You must submerge yourself and become baptized by the sea.
   
   
4. Knowing how to surf isn’t the absence of fear. It’s knowing how to balance your fear on a board and paddle out anyway. 
   

III. Wave Transformation

Thinking about legendary surfers, the famous Santa Cruz surfer Jay Moriarty comes to mind. At sixteen, he paddled into a thirty-foot Mavericks peak, got smashed by the titanic water, survived, collected himself, and while grinning, paddled back out into the fray. 

People noticed that when he peered at the ocean, he didn’t panic or sense dread. Instead, he saw inspiration. He faced the waves, literally, head on. 

I find myself with the same inspiration whenever life batters a new gust of seawater at me. I don’t shy away from the gaping mouth of a Mavericks wave. I point my surfboard and paddle headfirst into the foaming fray. I know from experience that what lies inside the barrel of a wave is what Viktor Frankl describes as the space between stimulus and response: my growth and freedom.

My courage to surf has transformed my ability to show up for my dear ones. Whenever they’re fumbling in the sea foam and I’m free, I keep watch for a distress signal in case I need to zip up my wetsuit and paddle out. My capacity to help and honor their well being comes from knowing I’m not afraid to dance atop the ocean’s mountains. 

I know that not everyone has this stamina or tolerance for discomfort. Some can’t handle saltwater in their eyes. Nor the risk of sharks lurking for seals. And if you’re someone who has a consistent forecast of calm, sunny weather, why position yourself next to someone with an occasional storm surge? 

I can’t fault anyone for how they respond to their own waves and geography, but I can be discerning about who applies to be a lifeguard on my own coastline.  

So now whenever I feel like I’m too much, that too many swells keep crashing in, gratitude goes to my community of fearless, sun-kissed, sea-riding warriors. We’ve got stories tattooed onto our bodies from the reefs’ arms tearing into our skin. We dance and move our souls to the rhythm of the tides. We can hold our breath under the turbulent grips of an undertow. We’ve brokered peace with Poseidon and his motley crew of sea monsters. All of this was achieved by our divine union with the sea.