Today, I came to the beach with a full spirit. I had been asked to light the chalice at church and as a new member didn’t really know what this entailed (don’t worry this isn’t going to turn into a religious discussion). I decided to speak what was on my mind and since it was between Memorial Day and Father’s Day I talked about my father. I was hesitant. I didn’t want to say something superficial but how much did I want to share in a congregation full of people who I know to varying degrees. For me, what moves me most are words from the heart, direct and honest and personal. I said that my father was in three battles: childhood, addiction and Vietnam and I don’t know which damaged him most. I said how he never returned to family or civilian life and as far as I know is still homeless. I said I have battled with my idea of how he should have lived his life and how I wish for quality care for children, addicts and veterans. I read a poem from a nurse who served in Vietnam. I wasn’t the least bit nervous while I was speaking as I was reading from a sheet of paper. But my heart was pounding. The minister, a kind man wearing comfortable shoes and a warm smile was a steadying presence. I lit the chalice for courage for battles not won or lost but experienced, for grief while bearing losses and for the peace that comes with accepting the way things are as opposed to wishing or willing them to be different.
When I lit the chalice my hand shook and it took me a long time to get the flame to light. I don’t know, in all that is in my life, what it is that precisely or exactly I chose to share. Maybe because I am realizing how much I’ve raged against the facts and realities in my life. Maybe because I am open to the peace that comes from saying, “this is what is” even if it is not the path I would have designed if life worked according to my plan.
What astounded me was the response which is one of the most affirming and compassionate reactions I have had to sharing something personal in my entire life. It is not the deepest, most recent or tender wound I have lived, but it is a story I’ve learned to sit with differently, to tell my own way and if and when I wish and to leave alone for long stretches of time in my heart and mind. Someone during the service thanked me for my words and the poem I shared. That made me tearful. In the aisles of the church people rubbed my shoulder, gave me thumbs up and one woman said, “there are no words” and gave me a hug. Many people told me they were moved my what I said. When I walked into the coffee house three women greeted me, all walking towards me with smiles and open arms and eyes that saw me. One said, “It took a lot of years for you to get to those words,” and I hadn’t thought of it that way but it was true.
It is the power of writing, of witnessing, of truth telling and of being seen and heard. It is not always the difficulties we bear that pain us, but the feeling of being judged or condemned, silenced or not seen in the particular way we experience some aspect of our lives that hurts. We are all so different, and when the same person, like a family member hurts many people, everyone clings to their own reactions and it is hard to see and accept and validate each other. In this space, I felt held, held by maternal and ancestral wisdom, not because people were older or even all women, but because people were accepting and listening and attentive. I felt attended to at the deepest level and I had not expected this at all. People shared some of their own individual struggles and issues, the parts of life that are confusing, painful and unreconciled, the parts of life where battles can’t be won or lost, where things aren’t defined.
One woman said, “There are ten people I’d like to share your words with,” and that almost made me cry. She hugged me though she’s not a hugger and I got teary though I’m not a person who cries easily. We live in a culture wher epeople carry deep sorrows or old sorrows or difficulties with shame or stignma so privately we can still believe we are alone even as we know, from books and movies, from reading the newspaper and hearing about our friends and loved ones, everyone faces life challenges.
I mentioned how I thought aging meant “aging out” of desires, confusion, life’s complexity and everyone smiled that, “yeah, that doesn’t happen does it?” but also celebrated that we have a space and a place to share deeply. And that is the ultimate gift. But it can’t be done unless one feels safe and there is an environment that is safe. And, unless we each risk some truth telling. I was tempted to quote Thomas Merton, maybe sound smart but not personal, maybe go with the less personal ligthing. But I don’t know that I’ll ever light another chalice in a sacred space and I wanted my words to matter to me. My spouse was teary and proud and held my hand. I was glad to have his hand holding my own after I spoke.
And then, in the play ground to watch my daughter twist in circles on the swing, tumble around and hang upside down from a jungle gym, drink apple juice and get me the pretzel remains as I was so hungry. She sang on the car ride home and I felt full. Grateful. Seen. Heard. Accepted. I didn’t tell anything close to my life story but I shared from the heart and was seen and heard and affirmed. I was reminded, as any group gathering where deep sharing happens, how funny and tragic and wonderful and painful every single person’s life is.
So, with a full heart I stepped onto the sand ready to walk and look for those lost soul sea glass fragments, the pieces that are the baby teeth of life’s mystery, the shards that make me wonder what was broken, the chunks that make me wonder about the larger whole, the colors that glisten on sand. I kept thinking, “Who owns the ocean? no one. no one. no one” and I was glad for that and public beach and access. I let my mind wander to points in the church service, to words that resonated about peace, questions raised about Quakerism and my own thoughts on what parts of will-fullness are a way of fighting with what is… A perfect day.
Next, I’ll write about the actual hunt.
Catch of the Day: Being present and grateful for the gift of others being present to me.
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After all this time loving sea glass I can’t tell you why it speaks to me so. I collect these pieces and some are raw and sharp and end up being tossed back in. Others are so treasured they go in bowls and are displayed on my mantle and within easy reach. I marvel at the way the white crystal forms on the glass, like cookies topped with confectionery sugar, love the contrast of old glass next to new glass vases holding flowers. It is amazing to me to see the texture of the back of a Hos-ta leaf near the fluffy rhododendron, the distinct iris and the softened edges of once sharp glass all in one shot. Even the mirror is a cleaner and functional glass which, if left in the ocean long enough, would change shape and size and texture.
SEA GLASS ARTS with Sea Glass Girl 