The Pacific Ocean rolls in timely waves in the beautiful expanse of southern California. My husband and I are celebrating our 23rd wedding anniversary this week, and yesterday, we were taken hostage by our hotel room whose vista looks across the ocean. Catalina Island is like a silhouette of a large ship, stationed and sedentary, with no desire to leave. She is happy.
Birds are trilling. Today, my husband is taking a run along the beach. I’m drinking coffee and writing. We came here to restore our bodies and minds from the demands of home. Lately, it’s been a whirlwind of teenage stress and enthusiasm. Daughter #1 has decided to attend Gonzaga next fall, a Catholic university in Spokane, Washington, a three hour drive from home. Daughter #2 is worried about her math grade. She has taken it upon herself to learn the concepts the teacher has failed to teach.
The ocean reminds me of power. My husband and I frequent southern California because of the ocean. We have fought, cried, laughed, and loved here. To me, the ocean symbolizes the importance of the story we tell ourselves, because ultimately our story is who we become. How easy it is to fall into the trap of diminishments and insecurities when worth and honor need our own whispers, like waves, of belief and strength. The practice is the power. We can wait for the big wave to roll in, crashing over us momentarily, or we can allow the big story to be told in subtle waves, over and over. Gentle laps. Ripples.
Time away from home allows this same practice to manifest in our marriage. We are happy. This story was not created on its own, but by small contributions, over and over. Time. Love. Restoration. Ripples of them, pacing our lives.