the greening

Everyone needs to take a step back once in a while-- to gain a fresh perspective, to pull one's rubber boots out of the sucking mud and walk for a while on solid ground. It's important to be able to do this on a regular basis, amidst the quotidian demands we all have to deal with, by taking a walk, carving out an hour to journal, meeting a trusted friend to debrief. But I've found that when things are particularly mucky, it's useful (maybe even necessary) to involve ferries or planes in the "stepping back" process. By God's good grace I planned a trip to California long before I guessed I'd need that kind of a step back. Having been more than a little neglectful in posting daily of late, I will make an effort to do this again, to keep myself focused on what I hope will be a greening process or sorts.

Entry One:

On the morning of the day I flew to California, I took the time to walk the tidal flats with a wise friend. It was a particularly low tide (lowest at 11:11) and it's something we do together when we can. Over the course of our mud flats conversation, I had a revelation: It's not enough to cope, you have to build in a buffer. Let me try to explain.

In the early spring, I was coasting along with a demanding work schedule, but still felt reasonably confident about adding the demands of dating to the mix. I felt good about it for the most part, and was congratulating myself on being able to cope with the mental, physical and emotional demands of it all. I was swimming along, treading water at times, keeping my head above water in the swimming pool of my own choices. Hah! I was unknowingly suffering under the illusion of control. I had fabricated a swimming pool reality for myself, forgetting that I live in a great big ocean, where I control neither the tides nor the winds nor the waves. So, when the circumstances of grief and loss rose up around me unexpectedly, it wasn't enough that I was capable of keeping my head above water in the swimming pool of my delusion, telling my self, "I'm an excellent swimmer." I'm like Dustin Hoffman's Rainman, having never driven beyond the confines of his own driveway, telling his brother, "I'm an excellent driver." Tragedy makes the best comedy. Alas.

Only the fool (that's me!) believes that life is fair. While I don't think we should live in a constant state of paranoia, it's hardly appropriate to foster the illusion that life won't propel us into the pull of a random rip tide from time to time. It's what you don't expect that will kill you. The child's cry of "It's not fair!" doesn't hold any weight in the adult world. "Right, it's not fair. Deal with it." This is where the buffer comes in.

I'm going to leave behind the swimming/ocean analogy. Stand with me on the cliff overlooking the sea. The view is spectacular. The wind is coming up strong from the sea and it holds you up so that you can lean into it and feel supported and strong. It's invigorating, standing so close to the edge. Suddenly the there's a random gust of wind from the other direction. It's unexpected, except for the fact that it's the very thing that happens in that sort of setting. Get it? You'd better not be standing too close to the edge or you'd be tumbling into the rocks below. Better to be slammed down on the cliff top, belly down but with solid ground beneath you, where you can still take in the view and live to tell about that nasty gust of wind.

So. On to the question of what that buffer looks like in the real world. I've spent a lot of time living at the edge. It's practically comfortable. It's certainly familiar. I like being able to congratulate myself for living at the edge and not tumbling off into the abyss. I feel somewhat heroic about that at times. What does someone like me have to do to build in a buffer?