Everything is different: the landscape internally, the landscape outside, daily routines. Where there was sadness and gloom, I now find elation, hope, possibility and peace. Where pebbly beaches and ice cold saltwater flowed toward me, I now dip my hands in warm buoyant ocean waves that caress and swirl around my feet. Where I was isolated and alone, I now find companionship, and sisterhood, in a daily and proximate way. Where I had community and dear friends nearby, I now find that phones and computers have to suffice in lieu of shared coffee hours at local cafes. It’s all different. It’s all ungrounding. I am in a new place; that’s both exciting and a bit anxiety-provoking.
Despite this, I take comfort in all the usuals: meditation, prayer, healthy foods and whipping cream mochas. I hug my dog and my nearby loved ones. I begin to write again, journaling snippets that will turn into essays and chapters later. I walk. I romp with pets. I smile at round-faced babies passing by in strollers. I look at the big, big sky that never goes away.
And most of all, being ungrounded allows each hour to emerge as a new thing unto itself. There are no prescribed ideas about how things will transpire. There is no way possible to predict precisely what life will look like in a month, or next year.
I can tolerate the ungroundedness and the lack of knowing, the lack of formula or plan or routine. Because right now each event, conversation, vista, or meeting brings an infusion of freshness into the day. The dog beach experience was totally different today than yesterday: early in this morning we had calm seas and a single pair of dogs, enticement for my hound to wade deep into the water and run happy chasing canine spirals in the soft, warm sands. (Yesterday there were tens of dogs and waves that chased my dog inland.) It rained last night turning familiar dry grains to wet clumps of beachiness, but even the beach that remains – over all – steadfast, shows signs of change and fluctuation.
It is all
moving. It is all changing. But the ground is still here. It might feel ungrounding, but the truth of the
situation is that my feet are still under me. And under them is the earth. It
is attitude (fear?) that gets in the way of re-membering my own rootedness on
this earth. Circumstances shift, but each breath is an opportunity to recall
myself to the larger, steady, evershifting change that characterizes life.
Life is not
having things remain the same, it is seeing how they continually move
kaleidoscopically with everything else that is alive. It is there that we can
find our ground.
All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
