At the heart of the wave
A reverse kind of surrender
I stumbled at Portobello beach yesterday, unknowing of my purpose. I had my swimsuit on, eager to jump in if the weather was kind, a large notebook in which I’m writing a course and big ideas, always on the bend for progress, a book that needs to be finished quickly for my translation book club and my own thoughts, reflections and revolutions, delicious digging companions.
I walked happily down the road, across the Promenade, all the way to the end, to a quiet spot. It takes me a while, a 45-minutes walk perhaps. I settled in a nook, a patch of sun, facing sand and sea.
(Si vous êtes un.e lecteur.rice francophone, vous pouvez modifier vos réglages ici pour ne recevoir que The Alma Writer - En Français)
Winds and waves of sand attacked the beach dwellers straight away. There is this strange phenomenon in Edinburgh, where the wind may come from several directions at once, making it impossible to take cover. It was one of those days and the sand started to nibble at me, at my clothes and possessions, slowly covering me and my towel with a thick layer of brown.
I stayed and dug into some journalling, planning and reading, hellbent on having a lovely beach session after time away from the city. And as I focused, I forgot, mostly, the sand trying to get under my pores. And yet, I was slowly disappearing behind its veil. But through it, there was one important understanding for my own work and writing, and perhaps it would have never come about without these specific sandy circumstances.
And with that, I wonder, do we always need to remove ourselves from the discomfort, to be in perfect sustained alignement, or should we accept it, in certain measure, to get to where we need to be?
Last week, I went surfing. Or rather, I stubbornly wanted to surf one last time at a specific spot, even though it wasn’t the season and the sun was playing hide and seek. Yes, I am very stubborn, when it comes to the sea and outdoors. Still, off we went, into the water and the clouds. The waves were unsurfable, and coming steadily at intervals of 3 seconds, which meant I barely had time to recover from drowning or trying to keep steady in a wave, when the next one was already there, and the next, and the next… all the while hoping to, at some point, try and position my board, jump on it and surf. It was fun and it was a struggle. I enjoyed it and I fought. I hurt my knee and I mini-surfed on my knees. I learned, my body learned more about surfing, and it will all serve me in the future and in kinder waves.
Growth can be found when we lean into difficult circumstances.
A few days prior, we went swimming. There were finally some rays of sunshine, and our sheer joy to be in a water warmer than 12 degrees. It had been a while. The waves were running hammock too, wilding and jumping in all directions, forcing us to jump or to dunk. The ocean doesn’t often have mercy.
There was one sweet, perfect moment, when I found myself in the perfect position, in the nascence of two waves, right at the midpoint, able to pass in peace and synchrony, while stormy and shaky waters were taking everything around me.
To stand still, unshaken, while the world whirls and swirls around is a rare and fulfilling feeling.
There are many ways to tackle a wave. You can jump and try to keep your head above the water. It’s fun, but most of the times inefficient. You can dunk and swim into it, or with it, to follow a flow. You can fight and thrash around, not having fun at all, or the type of fun that comes with a retelling of a fight and an adrenaline in the chaos. And you can surrender, truly, fully, surrender. And this is what I chose for the first time in the water. I turned my back to the ocean, I positioned myself on my back, facing the sky and clouds, trusting in what would happen, in devotion to the now,…
… and I let the waves take me.
If it was a small one, it would gently let me flop about, above water. It if it was a bigger one - and most were - it was taking me under water, for a moment, gently, with an ease I wasn’t expecting, a kind of reverse flow, one that wasn’t forced, manifested, crafted, worked hard for.
And there, in that surrendered flow and seconds, at the heart of the wave, I found the coalescence of stillness and action, of being and doing, of co-creation with a universe, one where I don’t force, but receive what is, in full trust, faith, devotion, abandon to what is, what was, and what will be.
At the heart of the wave, there is, I am.
I’m getting back to work this week, after a couple of weeks of holidays, in peace and trust. This is not a blind trust that is anchored on quicksands, but one that is deeply rooted to the water. Even if at first, a few years back, it all felt like quicksands - most probably an indispensable stage to full surrender.
If you are not a beach and sea bum like me, this is a simple invitation for you to ponder, wonder where, when in your life can you trust more, can you surrender, can you lean into the discomfort, to listen to the whispers of your soul and to start co-creating with the universe, the world around you?
I’ll be delighted to hold for you a shamanic ceremony this summer, in person in Edinburgh or online, or to have a conversation around spirituality.
You can find out more on my website.
With much love and gratitude, till a next letter,
Lucie