“In order to catch a wave, the planets have to align . . . not to mention so many other things that must come together in perfect synchronicity. You have to successfully navigate around other surfers, spot a rideable wave, properly anticipate the speed of the wave, paddle your arms like crazy and get into the wave’s sweet spot, pop up on your board in time, stand on the right part of the board and balance so as not to do a liquid face plant….In other words, odds are really not great for catching a wave, especially for someone like me who’s a lazy paddler and doesn’t appreciate saltwater in her eyes. But on the rare occasion it’s worked, it’s been a little bit of heaven—the closest thing to walking on water.”
—Pamela Capone, The Little Love That Could
Spotting this broken twig on my workout steps, I saw a tiny surfer. If you click on the pic, you’ll get a better view.
I feel like that broken, teensy dude these days. Like I’m trying to surf on concrete.
Last night, I came across this video of Ashley Judd “not caring.” Yes. I want what she’s having. It was beautiful to me. I want to join her “We Don’t Care Club.” It’s not a general apathy for which I aspire—I want to still care about and for a lot of things, of course, but I want to care less about what others think of me, and just do me. Splash in the ocean or write what I want. No one is obligated to watch me splash in the waves or read what I write, right? Or should I consider feedback that makes me uncomfortable, feedback that could make me grow? Yes. Both.
Yesterday morning, I got confirmation that I have indeed been a broken record for at least one person. This was my fear, and my heart sank. My writing about grief had become tiresome. But then, her text pivoted from complaint to gratitude because she is now in the throes of her own, sudden, massive loss, and my words of grief are helping her. She gets it. But if I’m honest, the first part stung.
Today on the steps, I listened to another grief podcast. I’ll drop it here, but be warned that it contains colorful language sprinkled throughout, which may be sensitive to some listeners. Like many things I read or listen to, I don’t swallow it whole; I don’t usually agree with or endorse everything I consume, but I take what I like and leave the rest. In many contexts, I think that’s wisdom.
In this podcast, some things hit a little too close to home—and maybe some of it is simply semantics—but I kept listening as I squirmed, just as I did with yesterday’s text, and I might just be better for it, not despite, but because of the squirm. They did use a word that rubs me the wrong way, “wallow.” They mentioned words that bug them, too—one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, I guess.
If you choose to listen to the podcast, keep an ear out for the glimmer vs. trigger conversation, the story of messy, muddled marbles in the grass, and the marbles collected in a jar exercise.
In trauma or grief, we’re familiar with the term, trigger. I have triggers every single day. But I also have glimmers many days.
Glimmer is the opposite of triggers. When you are in complex grief, paying attention to small, everyday positive things can be slowly transformative. A glimmer can be a yummy meal, or the way the sunlight feels on your shoulders, or a transcendent poem. Noticing glimmers can start to rewire your brain, creating new neuropathways. It’s what they also call “breadcrumbing your brain.” You can follow these breadcrumbs to realize all is not lost. That life is still worth living.
(From the transcript…)
“Just take a moment of presence, maybe take a breath in and be like, oh, that felt nice, noting it. And actually, literally write it down. I want people to have a log so you can’t trick yourself into saying that stuff doesn’t exist.
“And then when the next one happens, write it down. And so you might think later at the end of the day, like, oh, it was a s#*t day, nothing good happened. But you’ll look back and there’s going to be like five, seven, two, I don’t know, little moments.
“And then those are going to build up. And then eventually you’re going to see that like, oh, I’m actually safe in my body when I feel a little bit better. It’s actually OK to feel a little bit better in my body, to have these small moments that feel OK.
“…. It’s a balancing act. It’s kind of living and grieving, and the joy and pain can dance with each other.”
I had a tummy glimmer when I tried Truly Pizza in Dana Point recently. And when I’m reunited with my grandpup, Silas. The way he loves me up is like nobody’s business. And when I rode the Ferris wheel with my grandson this summer. My task is to be conscious of these glimmers, count them, and log them—breadcrumb my brain. I used to do this naturally, but with the weight of grief, they’re easily dismissed rather than cherished.
The major takeaway from the podcast (wait for it…):
It won’t get better if that’s what you believe.
It can get better if that’s what you believe.
It will get better if that’s what you believe.
That is all very squirmy but welcome information. I don’t want to believe it won’t get better because that’s flat-out hopelessness and death, and I can’t live there.
For now, I’ll take can. It can get better.
The podcast host used a phrase I loved, “persevere through pain,” and if I had to add a caveat, I’d say “persevere through pain with rest stops.”
The image of the tiny surfer, the morning text, and the podcast are helping to break up some concrete and find balance, stepping into holy water. Maybe the perfect or necessary conditions are coming together so that I can surf a salty, white-water, foamy wave—an epiphanous one, all the way to the shore.
Or maybe I’ll just splash around, caring just a little bit less about my imperfections.
I’m still going to write about grief.
And joy.
You have my word.