'Wait.'
Have you ever been at the mercy of water?
At the end of 2012, our dear friends, Holcomb and Conor, were visiting us at our house in Charleston between Christmas and New Years. We had just put Pip and Phoebe down for their naps. We were settling into a few quiet moments before saying goodbye to our friends, when suddenly, uncontrollably, out of nowhere, our house started violently spewing water. It was coming down through the ceiling, and out of the walls, at unimaginable speed, with great force. I ran upstairs. I could hear screams: water was pouring just to the side of Phoebe's crib. I reached around the waterfall to grab my baby. Pip was sitting up on his bed with his arms out to me. I scooped him up too, and with a child on each hip, I ran back downstairs.
"What's happening?" I yelled.
Holcomb and Conor were moving paintings and furniture out of harm's way. Roo had gone up to our third floor and was now running down to the basement:
"It's the sprinkler system," he said, "a pipe has burst on the third floor...it's flooding our entire house, top to bottom!"
Placing the children in a dry corner of our kitchen, I got towels and buckets, and joined Holcomb and Conor in trying to salvage our photo albums and my grandmother's lamps. Roo flipped a switch in the basement. As suddenly as it started, it stopped; the pouring, spewing, flooding slowed to a soping, dripping, soaking. In a state of shock, the adrenaline pulsed through our bodies. Everyone was OK. But our house was in ruins. The damage done in 10 minutes took over a year (and thousands of insurance dollars) to restore.
When I was younger, living in Mexico City with my family, we spent our weekends at resort towns along the pacific coast of Mexico: Ixtapa, Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta. Saturdays were spent at the beach, making drip castles, and napping on lounge chairs under palapas, wrapped in thin, white towels; swimming in the ocean was only allowed when our knobby arms and legs were clenched around a grown-up's torso. From our perch, the waves were gigantic, powerful and unpredictable; we were told they could pull us out to sea if we weren't careful.
At night, we would fall asleep to the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing below our hotel balcony while the overhead fan spun above. I would dream about a tidal wave on the horizon, making its way toward our high-rise hotel, gaining speed and force. What do we do: watch or run from the inevitable?
One of these Saturday mornings in Ixtapa, I wrapped myself around my father, giddy with fear and anticipation. We walked towards the surf. He told me we had to wait for an opportunity to get past the breaking point. Beyond the breaking point, I bobbed at my father's side, and was almost relaxed and joyful, except for the anticipation of our journey back. This particular morning, as my father swam me to shore, towards my mother and brother digging in the sand, we got caught. The force came down, hard, from behind. We were swallowed, whole; instantly, I was separated from my father's strong, safe body. Alone, under water, my six-year-old self tumbled into an abyss. I remember thinking: 'I just have to wait.' I wrapped my arms around my chest and repeated the word, 'Wait.' Fear kept trying to take over in those suspended seconds underwater: 'When will I be able to breath?' 'Where's daddy?' 'Am I being swept out to sea?' Then the calm would come again: 'Wait, Georgia...just...wait.' I popped up. As soon as the oxygen filled my lungs, I began to cry out, and my father's arms swept me up once again.
"Well, that was an adventure," he said, "Are you OK?"
"NO!" I sobbed.
He brought me back to my mother, who wrapped me up in my thin white towel, and together, we lay down on the lounge chair. Slowly, the rising and falling of her chest, and her tight embrace, quieted my pulse and tears.
Walking the other day, I asked for clarity in how to best love someone in pain. There is evidence of real growth in the shift from 'how can I fix their pain' to 'how can I best help my loved one endure their pain.' It's at the bend in the road when the memories of the flood in our home, and getting caught in a wave with my father, surface. I pause: 'why are these memories coming to the shore of my mind?' Slowly, I receive the message: loving someone in pain (whether an addict, a cancer victim, or one grieving a deep loss) is not unlike being at the mercy of water. When an addiction or cancer or tragedy is triggered, the onslaught is like water spewing from the burst sprinkler pipe; it is like an oncoming tidal wave. I have no control. I can wait for the force of the wave to subside, but in the meantime, I cannot control where my loved one pops up; I cannot even keep them safe in my tightest embrace.
I must harken back to my six-year-old wisdom: 'wait, Georgia, wait.' I must be patient. I must stay calm. I can pray. I can hope. I can love. But I cannot control, I cannot stop, I cannot cure--there is no switch in the basement to flip, there is no insurance. 'Wait, Georgia, wait.' I must be patient--I must let go of my will. Physics assures me that the wave will lose its energy as its spreads. The wave will recede back out to sea, leaving a fleeting imprint in the sand, and my loved one will pop back up, gather themselves, and swim back to the shore. I will be here, waiting, ready to wrap them up in a towel, and embrace them with all my might.
"But what if they don't pop back up?" you say.
"I don't know yet."
As always, thank you for reading,
Georgia
Two things:
Braiding Sweetgrass, the book we are reading for our next book club on 11/17 at 630p ET, is one of the best books I've read in a long time. If you don't have time to read it, the author, Robin Wall Kimmerer, is the narrator on the audio version.
Our next Blue Light Collaboration is a A Yoga + Breathwork Class with Georgia Reath + Eliza Kane on Sunday, November 21 at 4p ET. This is an opportunity for you to align and attune yourself to your life force; ground, heal, and energize your mind, body and spirit. Do not miss this opportunity to give to yourself. Sign up now and put it in your calendar. It's that simple.