The Introvert's Party

The last month of my life have been rife with stomach-clenching, headache-inducing days of anxiety.  Baby anxiety in the big picture but my anxiety none-the-less.  My mantras have been "This is only for now" and "Just one more thing that scares you."  I feel like whenever we move, I am afraid of everything.  Everything.  There was a time in my life when I felt relatively fearless.  I remember telling my mom that the travel warning for Israel be damned, I was going.  And then while in Israel, hoping that a contact in Gaza could "sneak us in."  Of course, that wasn't fearlessness, it was complete idiocy; selfish and unloving. 

But life is more complicated.  Not four kids and a mortgage kind of complicated, but the kind of natural complication for a woman in her twenties; student loans, husband and dog, rent, dreams.  All that nonsense that seems to fill up my brain-space with worry. 

We've moved closer to the natural force that guides me: the Pacific Ocean.  I mean, right smack dab next to the Pacific Ocean.  She wakes me, sings me to sleep.  I grew up about a ten minute walk from the Pacific but it was a quiet, user-friendly ocean.  That is the Pacific I know; the temperate blue companion that dots my vision whatever my island travels.  Grocery shopping?  There she lies.  Daily commute, walking the dog, hiding from friends?  There she lies. 

Not that I have held her at a distance:  I have almost drowned in her waters, been scarred by her creatures, been cast aside and then yanked back into her waves.  But so far from the ocean spray in The Valley of all places (I mean, driving to Santa Monica from Glendale?  So much traffic), the decision to return to her waters was easy.  Long strolls at dusk, a welcome mat dusted by sand, a canine transformed, souls at peace, and that lovely, lovely ocean mist.  Fog, you mean?  Yes, lots and lots of fog.

Turns out, the Pacific Ocean scares me more than I remember.  A dead dolphin washed up on our beach yesterday.  I can't remember that ever happening when I was a kid.  Also, my dog hates the water.  (She's from the Georgia country, more of a fresh water kind of gal.)  The waves crash against the bluffs with frightening power.  From the beach below, I can see a row of condemned housing; the buildings are literally falling into the ocean. 

I should fear the ocean.  It is, above all else, awesome in the same way it is awe-ful, a thing of terror and majesty.  Powerful, mighty, and much, much bigger than I.  Let me also pose an addendum that the ocean I grew up next to funneled into my memory by way of Waikiki Beach.  I grew up by the most touristy part of Hawaii and the beaches were somewhat well-packaged.  There was little to fear besides bad sunburn and ignorant tourists.

Still, I hear that little Bob Costas-like voice inside telling me to conquer that fear, vanquish your demons, while he does a play-by-play of my morning routine, but fear is good, it is natural and healthy and human.  Trying to conquer the object of fear is quixotic and not in a good way.

I look out into the deep blue horizon and think of drowning; I look back to the tide and think of splashing.  The beach makes up a fraction of the ocean, just a fraction.  The approachable part of a terrifying whole.

I need the ocean, but I love the beach.   We need the ocean; it gives us life, beauty, disaster, hope.  I don't need to dive in, but I can't drive to Nebraska either.  Little by little, I am mapping out this coast for good sand, tide pools, calmer waters.  Not something just like home and its warm comforts, but something I recognize. 

I don't mean to "conquer" or " vanquish."  Those words are broad strokes for daily motions that feel small and stupid and useless, but everything formed and transformed in this world is done so by tiny acts that seem small and stupid and useless at the time.  You can love the beach and fear the ocean.  Hell, some people love the ocean and fear the beach but that's a completely different personality.  They are the hero-types, the Big Fish that hate shallow waters.

A big draw to the Bay Area was the fact that it has nurtured and continues to nurture a number of writers and publications that I admire.  I do hope to stumble into Michael Chabon in a Berkeley cafe one day, oh the day!  But Anne Lamott has a way of grabbing hold of my little snow-globe world and giving it a good rattle.  On the subject of fear, she writes in Traveling Mercies about a little girl named Akela and her dog phobia.  Her parents took her to a psychologist who made this recommendation:

"... if they helped Akela to be brave one dog at a time, the whole universe would shift gently, and that tiny shift would be enough for the girl's terror to be transformed."

The whole universe would shift gently.  I leave you with that: that tiny shift...

One small step, one grain of sand.  Happy Wednesdays, All.  Until I am gainfully employed, I hope to be fruitfully reestablishing my presence in the vast internet sea.

In Peace,
Kris