So much of my writing, my blogging, has been about the past, for that is where I have spent so much of my time. Defining who I am by where I have already been.
All the while penning about the past, I have, on the inside, been nervously anticipating the future.
Hourglass in hand. Always.
Worried there would even be a future. Scared I would run out of time. Die before I had a chance to truly live.
Forever conscious of those evil twins, loss and abandonment, lurking in shadows, certain they would pounce before or immediately upon finally finding and feeling contentment, joy, inner peace and security.
Worrying negatively about the future based on my past has always been my way of trying to control what may or may not be coming my way. If I expect the worst, I keep it at bay.
Talk about stinkin' thinkin', as the self-help jargon goes.
So busy wading in yesterday, worrying about tomorrow, I have experienced most of my life from the backwaters of hoping, wishing, wanting...never truly trusting.
Afraid to have faith that who leaves but for a moment comes back. That who or what arrives in my life needs time and space and air to thrive and grow and change, evolve. Refusal to believe that change doesn't always mean "the end".
Hence, I have spent the past 43 years -- since my mother died unexpectedly when I was just three days shy of 13 -- clutching, clinging, and waiting for the other shoe to fall. And in doing so, I have squeezed the life out of most of my todays. Bludgeoned them to death with "what ifs" or, perhaps worse yet, crippled them by conjuring up my worst demons, fear of death and fear of failure.
Have I ever lived in the here and now?
Beginning to.
Baby steps.
My own personal gifts from the sea since moving to Myrtle Beach a month ago:
The constant assurance of the ocean waves, crashing onto the shore one moment, retracting the next, only to come back more fervently, or more calmly, moments later. But always returning.
And every day, even when it is cloudy, realizing that the sun rises. A fresh start.
Yes, each dawn different, but beautiful. Full of promise. Knowing, without a doubt, that everything is possible if I just open myself up to all that is right here in front of me, all that is real, tangible, sturdy yet fluid.
I am learning to face my fears. I am growing. Remembering that what I allow will continue. My choice.
Having faith that, indeed, for all its terrors and tragedies, life is good.
I breathe in each new day, revel in whatever it brings, exhale and smile.
Welcoming, and writing while in, transition. Present perfect, despite its imperfections.
For the first time in my life, embracing, not merely enduring, the ebb and flow.
All so new to me.
Trust comes slowly. But it comes.
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