Lately, I've been watching the currents in the Pacific.
Most mornings, I sit on my deck with breakfast and look out at the ocean. I've been noticing the currents for a while now, on my walks and from my window. But from the beach, it has been difficult to really see what is happening. I could sense the movement, but I couldn't capture it with my phone. At times I wondered if I was imagining some of it.
Then one cloudy morning, the ocean was full of foam, and from my higher vantage point I could finally see it.
The water moving away from the shore was just as powerful as the waves coming toward it. I could see ripples traveling outward against the incoming waves until the two currents collided. The collision was forceful, almost harsh, and then each continued moving in its own direction. There was a loudness to it that couldn't be ignored.
I felt it in my chest. There was excitement, and a little fear. Mostly, there was a sense of recognition. There it is. I knew I wasn't imagining it.
I've had moments like this in nature before. Moments when something catches my attention in a way that is difficult to explain. There is an intuitive feeling that says, Pay attention. Something is happening here.
I don't always know what the message is. In fact, I've learned that trying too quickly to figure it out can cause me to miss something.
A couple of years ago, I was standing in my yard when a hawk landed on my fence, only about six feet away from me. I could see its piercing yellow eyes. I immediately felt that same sensation: Pay attention.
My mind wanted to interpret it right away. What did it mean? What was it trying to tell me?
But the meaning didn't reveal itself that day. It unfolded slowly over the months that followed.
At the time, I was struggling with whether to sell my home. It had been my dream home, and I was deeply attached to it. Looking back, I came to understand the hawk differently. Perhaps it wasn't giving me an answer about whether to stay or go. Perhaps it was asking me to take a higher perspective, to see beyond how emotionally close I was to the decision.
I saw that hawk five months before I sold my home.
I don't know that it was predicting anything. I don't think nature always hands us a message that can be neatly translated. Sometimes I think it simply asks us to become more aware and to take notice. The meaning may reveal itself later, or it may reveal itself in ways we never expected.
That is what I feel happening again now.
I've been carrying a lot of sadness lately. There has been so much devastation in the world, so much suffering and uncertainty, that at times it feels difficult to take it all in. I find myself grieving things I cannot fix and feeling afraid of what is coming next.
What frightens me most isn't only the suffering itself. It's the possibility that we could become accustomed to it. That we could see so much pain that we eventually stop feeling it. That we might become desensitized or apathetic simply because feeling everything would be too much.
I don't want to become numb.
So I've been thinking about what it means to stay open-hearted without becoming overwhelmed.
I'm learning that I can't ingest everything. I stay informed, but I also pay attention to how much devastation I am taking into myself. When I feel overwhelmed, I step away. I go outside. I exercise. I meditate. I create. I turn toward myself instead of continually looking outward.
I'm beginning to think of this as a kind of digestion. I take in what I can, and then I give myself time to process it. I don't want to assume I know what it needs to transform into. Sometimes it might become a painting. Sometimes it might become a meaningful or compassionate interaction with another person. Sometimes it may simply change the way I see something or the way I move through the world.
What I do know is that I change. And because I change, the energy I put back into the world changes too.
Maybe this is part of what I'm learning in this period of my life. I have become less attached to the material world the longer I've been away from it. Things that once seemed necessary don't seem quite as important anymore. There is a letting go happening, although I'm not sure exactly what I'm letting go toward.
And that uncertainty can be frightening.
I am afraid of the suffering that may be coming. I'm afraid of the heartache and pain. I'm afraid that I can't envision what the world will look like on the other side of all this change.
Maybe that's why the currents have caught my attention.
From where I sit, I can see the water moving in two directions at once. I can see the force of the collision, but I can't see where either current began or where it will ultimately go. I can only see a small part of the whole movement.
Maybe I am like that right now.
I am too close to some of what is happening to see it clearly. I'm standing inside the fear and sadness, trying to imagine what comes next, and I can't.
But maybe not being able to see what comes next doesn't mean there is nothing there.
Maybe I don't need to know the message yet. Maybe I only need to pay attention, to stay open, to take in what I can, and to allow myself to process what I've taken in. I can trust that something will emerge from it, even if I don't know yet what that something is.
The currents will keep moving, coming toward the shore and moving away again, colliding and separating, each following its own direction. And for now, I think I'll keep watching.
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If you enjoyed What I Cannot Yet See, you might also enjoy Beneath the Earth, Something Remembered Me, a reflection from my time in Mexico about entering the ancient waters of the cenotes and the feeling that some encounters with nature carry a meaning we may not understand until much later.