The depth of the ocean

My grade 1 teacher and I follow each other on Facebook. She commented on one of my blog posts that she remembered me being an excellent writer even back then – 35 years ago! And she’s right, I was. And I was so eager to impress my teachers with my writing.

As I grew older and became filled with teenage angst, I was driven by my friend’s reactions to my dark poems that I’d scribble during Math class and proceed to pass around on a torn-out spiral notebook page.

And then I kind of stopped writing. Was it because I had no one to pass my poems to in cegep and university? Was I too consumed with my studies to pause long enough to write anything worthwhile? Or was I so numb and self-medicating with dopamine fixes from binge drinking, suppressing all emotions and distracting myself with my active and chaotic social life?

Or is it because I had no one to write for? I feel like that’s why I was never into journaling, even in recent years when I’ve been on a self-healing journey filled with meditation, energy work, and therapy. It has always felt like a waste to write something just for me, without anyone else’s validation.
My therapist made me realize that was what I was doing on this blog. After publishing a post I’d obsess over how many views, how many likes or comments – and the catharsis was overshadowed by the compulsion to see how many gold stars I’d get or, even more embarrassing, how much pity. After that realization, I stopped blogging regularly too.

In a recent session with an energy worker, I was told that my spirit guides want me to start writing again. Since then, I’ve been asking myself what I could possibly write about, and who could I try to move with my words?

Yesterday I was meditating with my ass in the sand. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to meditate. I’ve been too far gone and overwhelmed with too many emotions, unable to hush my intrusive thoughts, even through a guided meditation. But yesterday, as I focused on inhaling the sun as each wave splashed against my lower body, and exhaling my despair as the waves and sand beneath me receded, I felt at peace for the first time in so long, and not because I was distracted. I was still, tears flowing down my cheeks and mixing with the salt water, and I whispered to the goddess of the ocean to cleanse me, de quitarme lo malo. To remind me that I too am like the ocean, and not just a victim of its ebbs and flows. The high and low tides of my life are not what define me. My soul gravitates to the moon. My undercurrent is powerful, even when I look calm on the surface. I too can glisten in the sun and carry so much darkness, 70% of which is undiscovered by anyone on the outside.

I wonder, though, if the ocean feels as tired as I do carrying all that strength. Does she also get depleted? When does the ocean rest? Is it after a storm? Yes, it must be. That’s another thing we have in common I guess.

As I sat there meditating, the wind blowing in my ears so violently I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts, she whispered to me, “write about this.” And so I did. Not for my teachers or my friends. Not for likes or comments. I wrote for her.