Simple, seemingly ordinary moments in life can be powerful teachers. Over the past couple of months, I have probably taken in more life lessons than one human being ought to in a short period of time. Hence, a bit of online silence as I have been sorting through the thoughts swimming around in my head. As I practice "bringing myself to account" (see also Nas's blog) and as some of my thoughts surface to take a breath of air, I feel moved to share a story.
During my trip to Florida and sandwiched between MANY fabulous adventures, I had a particularly poignant experience at the beach – one of those everyday moments that became a powerful teacher.
On my first full day in Merritt Island, I had every intention of spending lots of time at the beach. After all, when in Florida... I was particularly looking forward to a long, quiet walk. Instead, I lounged a bit in the morning – checking email, writing in my journal, reading some magazine articles, eating fruit. (Mangoes = yum!!) So, I went to the beach later in the afternoon, and it was pretty crowded by then. Families enjoying the afternoon together, kids on summer vacation hanging out, surfers desperately trying to catch a wave, etc. So much for the quiet walk.
As I stepped onto the hot beach, paying attention to the feeling, the quality of the grainy sand between my toes, I was suddenly transformed into an observer. It was as though I was floating 3 feet above, watching myself experience the scene. There was so much activity on the beach it was hard to take it all in, so I spent a moment getting my bearings – I closed my eyes and took in the scent of the salty ocean air, the feel of the warm breeze, the sound of the waves lapping onto the beach and then receding over shells and seaweed, the buzz of conversation punctuated by playful laughter and the delightful squeals of children playing… All of my senses were online and connecting with the natural environment. In a way, it was like returning home, having vacationed in Florida almost every year since I can remember until the middle of high school. Many mixed feelings, but familiar ones all the same.
After several minutes of sensory immersion, I opened my eyes and put on my headphones before starting my walk down the beach. I had Coldplay's "X&Y" playing as the perfectly dreamy soundtrack for what was to be a woolgathering experience, akin to moments of déjà vu I vividly recall and reinforcing my sense of a homecoming. I felt like a participant again, absorbing the changes in the beach’s surface texture as I walked from the boardwalk to the water – through soft, dry sand; over harder sand compacted by tire tracks; onto sharp, crunchy shells; and then wet sand that was hard as concrete in some places and soft as mud in others. I enjoyed every inch of beach I walked as I approached the water and then let the foamy waves lap onto my feet and legs. I became acutely aware of places I had apparently scraped or cut on my feet and ankles as I waded through the saline water. A good reminder not to wear tight shoes. Ever.
I walked for over an hour up and down the beach, first north and then south. (I vaguely recall this has always been my habit, although I am not sure of its origin. Hm.) I would stop to pick a few shells of interesting color or texture, stand in the warm water for a few moments, watch the seagulls play and scavenge for food, and observe varying textures on the water’s surface. As my attention shifted from the beach itself to the people, however, the sun seemed to shine more brilliantly and a smile somehow crept onto my face and stayed with me for the rest of the day. At once, it was a glorious walk as I became intensely aware of everyone there at the beach – literally every individual, as though I had tuned into each person’s frequency and was living that moment in his shoes. At once, I knew everyone’s story, from their specific activities that day at the beach to their history and even their future. I just knew.
I witnessed young friends walking together, sharing stories or laughing about a recent event; dads playing with their children, laying down as if asleep only to jump up and surprise the kids, eliciting squeals and screams and cultivating a sense of excitement and wonderment; and elderly women leaning into their hushed conversation, joking together and reminiscing, recalling their many adventures. I caught glimpses of lovers leaning against each other as they sat in the wet sand, letting the waves wash over their legs, completely rapt in each other’s presence as if the beach and the world beyond it did not exist except for them. I enjoyed seeing an older sister patiently teach her brother how to boogie board and surf the waves while he furtively glanced around to make sure no one was watching him take instruction from *a girl* much less his sister.
And then… then I stopped – somewhat in awe, as if daydreaming – to watch a young mother wearing vintage sunglasses and a floral beach coverup, her hair tied back with a scarf, breaking bread into small pieces and showing her excited toddler how to throw the bread into the air to feed the seagulls. I blinked a couple of times in delight as I recalled the very same scene from my memory; a comforting warmth pervaded my very being as I was seeing it happen again right before my eyes. Eternal return, indeed.
In my consciousness, all these precious moments pooled together to create a powerful sea, surging with possibility and knowing. I felt this abiding awareness of the oneness of humanity, a tangible moment (if only the tiniest glimpse) of "knowing" the meaning of oneness and unity, how oneness manifests in the world of existence, and how connected we really are. This knowing filled me with an overwhelming sense of love that was so tangible, so immense I thought it might break me in two. (Ironically.) It was as though in that moment the glory of God clearly shone through each and every soul on the beach, merging these souls into a stunning mosaic of humanity. Never have frailty and power been so intertwined and inseparable - nor so beatific.
As I write this account, I can hear kids in the neighborhood screaming with delight as they play a game by the open hydrant, their squeals and laughter echoing off the concrete and brick canyons between the apartment buildings. I love it. In a way, these children are laughing the same laughs I heard on the beach that day, just as they are experiencing the same joy of a simple moment in life. We are all so connected.