Here we are
Back at the landing
It’s been awhile
The water waited for our return
Life got busy, but the tides kept rolling in and out as the minutes turned into hours turned into days into weeks. Or was it just yesterday that I swam here last?
I was a child had a child then another and the moon kept pulling the tides and then bam! 19 years gone by, and our eldest tossed his hat off, graduated and made for the door while our youngest snuck up behind and finished 8th grade, leaving boyhood and our beloved Odyssey behind.
I thought yesterday as I clasped the dog leash and my swim suit in sure hands, Rocky at my side, that I would write again after we both had a dip in the Salish Sea.
I’ve missed swimming these past weeks, I’ve missed writing too, and the word “patience” kept popping up like a bright buoy in the sea that is my mind.
The sea is endlessly patient. When the waters warm enough the seaweed reappears, the jellyfish return, and the cycle of life comes round again. The bees too, wait patiently for the blossoms to open right on time, while birds wait for the worms to appear after a good spring rain, and trees wait for the sun to rise—always patiently. Nature is never in a hurry. Even our hair doesn’t, won’t, grow faster than it should. What is the hurry?
Our eldest spent months so anxious to finish high school, be done, move on to parts unknown. And suddenly, now, he is done. And our time at Odyssey is done and I’m looking for my anchor.
I feel a little lost to be honest.
The faces and days and shapes of the past twelve years as a parent of Odyssey grounded me. Like our eldest I’m feeling a bit untethered, adrift. The lonely year behind us stripped us all down to fish bones. Raw and brittle—and we got stinky too. I missed our school community and the casual conversations and passings at pick up time and the faces of so many students and parents. I took for granted the comfort in really knowing such a caring, diverse group of people, and seeing them daily.
Our graduate of 8th grade looks ahead now to high school, excited and ready for his next chapter. Our high school graduate looks to distant towns, faraway lands, an open map before him.
But I, untethered from this strange but known place and time, drifting away from a school that anchored all of us, find myself spinning like a rudderless boat, my sails flapping.
This is a strange and fragile moment. Slippery like a fish, the feelings real but fleeting as they are too big to catch. Too strong to hold onto.
And I must let them go. Release my catch. Head back to the water and float my body through the days and weeks and years ahead and see what I can see. And feel all that I can bear to feel. And all the while I must remain patient like the sea.
I stepped into the cold water yesterday at low tide, gingerly balancing over the edges of sharp rocks. I placed all of my focus on the bottoms of my feet. I felt my bones bend and lean into and away from the hidden rocks below me, and I breathed patience.
I dove under then broke the surface to swim head above water in circles around the pilings. I closed my eyes and strained my ears to hear the voice of the rippling water around me, reconnect with my water-home. A seagull cried above me. My body eased.
I still have a place here, in the soft water.
And my sons will know to find me here, for I, like their father, am their anchor. And they are mine. My anchor to now, this ever changing moment.
The water will remain our guide.
Mary Swims 