I find it easy to spiral into negativity when the headlines blur and the grocery store feels like a war zone of choices. The inequity of our culture. The sons and daughters left for dead. The heavy boot print stamped into the ground. Institutions gorging on the marrow of tomorrow. The gravity of dysfunction is high.
So strong, even hope begins to flicker like static in a screen-lit room.
Suffering is the constant, softened by fleeting bursts of compassion. We ride on the waves. Soaring across peaks of connection, then wallowing in valleys of despair. It is said that only by becoming the ocean can we free ourselves from the influence of those stormy seas. A truth whispered from the mountain top, scrawled on the subway walls. Lost in the cacophony of voices calling out. Calling out for attention. Calling out for a fight. Calling out because silence has become unbearable.
Because we are all addicted to the ride, the thrill of falling.
Knees shaking, breath catching. Laughter caught in the throat like a choke. We can’t believe we got away with it. Until we don’t. Until the day we turn quickly. And see ourselves seeing. The self is no self. The horizon stretches out. Peaks and valleys melt into a single, steady line. And we know, the way out is through. To stop falling, we must become vast.
To remember we are salt and current, along with the storm.