is grief an ocean or a wave?

To me, grief is a lot like water; specifically ocean water.

Each person has a different journey to the ocean; a unique introduction to the experience of water.

I’m talking about your first memory of being in the water, being surrounded by this “thing” that is both old and new. For me, my first vivid memory of water is being at the beach. Both of my parents walking with me to the edge of the shoreline; holding me so that I was basically floating just above the ground as the water barreled over the sand. As a little human, I felt so secure in the face of one of nature’s most powerful elements.

I was also young when I experienced grief for the first time. My father’s mom passed away when I was little. I remember someone sitting me down and explaining that I wouldn’t see my mom-mom anymore. I don’t remember the specifics, but I’m sure that I was told she was visiting Heaven and that one day I would see her again. As a child, I didn’t understand or really grasp, what was happening. I just knew that my parents were holding me tightly - basically floating above something I didn’t understand.

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When we are born into this world - it is magical. The lights turn on and suddenly our journey begins. Of course, we are totally dependent on our caregivers. My parents were my foundation; my literal lifeline. I can’t imagine that as a parent, they were prepared for every moment. They probably were not thinking about my high school graduation when I would startle them awake at 3AM. They probably weren’t even thinking about the next week. As a parent, I’m sure you are thinking, “Please, just let me get today right.”

So, there is no possible way they were ready to walk me into the water that is grief. They weren’t ready when I was five years old. They aren’t ready now that I am 27 years old. In my mind, there are these two powerful pictures. The first is of my parents - youthful and playful as they hold my little hands and we waddle to the saltwater for the first time. In the second image, we are all older. I look now like they did then, and they (still beautiful) aren’t as excited about the water and its mysteries as we approach the shoreline.

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The thing about grief is that it changes shape.

At times, grief is all-consuming. It overrides every thought. It is immediate and it is total. It’s like this swelling of emotion, where you feel the assuredness pulling out from under you… and then swish, the wave hits. And even though a wave is over in seconds, it has the potential to knock you down; to disorient you. When grief swells and takes hold of you, it has a similar effect. In grief, you are still the same person with the same abilities, but your mind and body are just too busy to be anything other than grieving.

Of course, the waves always break. When the wave dissipates and the ocean returns to form, the shoreline is quiet, calm. The flatness of the ocean is mesmerizing. To stand in the water and feel two elements surround you is something special. To know grief and not be totaled by it is special, too. Grief gives our spirits some type of momentum - to remember, to search, to hold. As a child, grief might as well just be water. It makes no sense. It’s frustratingly obscure. As an adult, grief commands respect but also invites you to just be still. Of course, this is still the ocean… waves will come again.

Because of course there is this change. Unlike your first wave, you know the water and how it shapeshifts. The ocean is not just a seemingly endless stretch of water. It can become a wall. It can become train-like. It can be harsh, even scary.

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When I am in the water, recovering from a wave, there is one thing that always brings me comfort.

As I find solid ground, I always turn to face the shoreline. To watch all the other people that are recovering from their wave and to see the people that are safely watching in those folding chairs. There is comfort in knowing that we all try to navigate the water. It helps to know that I’m not the only person that the wave crushed.

Fortune favors your ability to process grief - to be knocked down and to get back up. Take some time to stay in it - to let your soul recover.

Just don’t stay in too long or you’ll start to prune.