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~photo by Lisa Denning

I’m about ¾ mile from shore when I hear my favorite sound.

Eeeee eeee eeeee.

My friends are here.

I look up…nothing.

I dive down…nada.

I keep swimming and the sounds dissipate.  “Oh well, at least I got to hear your sweet voices,” I call to the spinners. “Thank you.”

I keep going, and when I’m about 200 yards from the other side of the bay (a full mile from my starting point) I see two gray bodies surface over by the rocky cliff that provides the third ‘side’ of the bay.

“Maybe there are just a few here today,” I think. “I’ll go see if they want to play.”

I continue in that direction and I see a few more of my sleek finned friends. This time they’re diving deep, like they do when they’re in a deep slumber.

I stop swimming and just hang motionless on the surface of the water.

Here come 10 more, their noses pointing right at me. Then I see 50 more below me. And another 40 coming from my left. They keep pouring in, as if an underwater gate has opened and these wise and gorgeous creatures are streaming in from another dimension to heal us.

As soon as I have that thought, I feel at once that it is both ridiculous and true.

The dolphins have been my greatest spiritual teachers, and I drink up their magic until it spills out of every pore in my body.

The elegant, undulating bodies just keep pouring in from all sides, as I bask on the surface, gasping, giggling, and moaning in ecstasy.

Nearly all of them are asleep, but I do see a few carrying leaves, so I collect a few of my own in case I find a playmate.

I see a few moving quickly, so I dive down and place a bright yellow leaf in their path.

Nope.

They all pass by without showing an inkling of interest.

Wait. One is circling back.

But not to the leaf.

To me.

He comes to my left side, circles me, then hangs in the water in front of me, his body still curved in an arc from the circle maneuver. He’s resting, so his eye facing me is closed.

He opens it, giving me a reverse-wink as he circles in tighter and tighter around me. After a few more circles, he leans into me and offers his cheek, as if asking for a kiss. Then he dives down, picks up the leaf I’ve left him, and continues on his way.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time alone. My parents divorced when I was three, and my dad lived 500 miles away in another state, so parenting was a solo job for my mom. She worked long hours, so my introvert and I seamlessly became the classic ‘latch-key kid.’

I had a single key strung on a piece of yellow yarn that I wore around my neck underneath my t-shirt. Each morning I would use the key to lock up the house, and each afternoon after kindergarten, I would walk home, let myself in, and spend the hours before dinner alone in my room.

It may sound like a sad scene, but in truth, I relished those quiet moments.

I didn’t have an obsession, or even a hobby. I wasn’t a savant—musical genius or otherwise. No, I would just sit or lie down, close my eyes, and go somewhere.

I didn’t have a name for this place. I didn’t meet otherworldly beings there. It wasn’t a fantasy world, and I didn’t converse with any imaginary friends.

Rather, this nameless, place-less place felt more like a void. A gap. A pause between places.

I was neither here nor there. I was alone, but I wasn’t.

There was a presence, and a feeling that I so desperately craved.  

This place held me, nourished me, mothered me, even, throughout my childhood. All those hours spent alone, and yet not—connected to the very fabric of existence—took care of me in a way I’m not sure any person could have.

At some point—probably around the time I was sneaking out of my bedroom window in the middle of the night and shimmying up metal poles to steal street signs—I lost my ability to enter the emptiness. Or, perhaps more accurately, I allowed my attention to be stolen by thoughts of being less-than, yearnings to be liked, and fears about who and what I would become.

It didn’t take long before I had completely forgotten about the emptiness.

But, of course, my need for nourishment didn’t go away.

I tried going to parties, but the moment I had a teaspoon of alcohol, I’d start climbing trees and scaling buildings. I tried getting good grades and stacking up accomplishments, but that just made people expect more from me than I ever thought I could live up to. My introvert and I even went to a rave and popped a little white pill, but, as you know if you’ve read my book, that didn’t turn out well.

I did finally find solace in running—pounding the pavement until those pesky ‘shoulds,’ ‘what ifs,’ and ‘what-do-they-think-of-mes’ quieted down in my mind—but the trouble with running was that although my mind adored it, my body did not, and injuries finally closed that door for me.

But even then, I was lucky.

My drug of choice—intense, sometimes excessive, exercise—was legal, and although painful, it wasn’t lethal.

Others—I’m sure we all know someone—aren’t so lucky.

It seems we’re all searching for this emptiness—a pause from the relentless mind chatter. A quiet moment where we can just BE.

Without running, I was forced to find my way back to the emptiness through attention alone. With my butt all but glued to the chair, I slowly learned to enter a meditative state that reunited me with my favorite childhood playground.

It’s not that hard, actually, if you’re good at letting go.

I, of course, was not. Hence my slow learning curve. But even I found my way.

The key, I’ve found, is space.

Not outer space. Just plain old mundane space.

There’s space between your in-breath and your out-breath. There’s space between your steps as you walk. Between the words on this page. Between the blades of grass. And sometimes, there’s even space between your thoughts.

Wherever I could find space, I simply put my attention there…

And as I did, the space would grow.

And grow.

And grow.

And eventually, the space would overtake me, and I’d find myself in the emptiness.

Today, during my swim, it was the ocean that guided me into the emptiness. She’s the most gracious guide I’ve found, offering us over 300 million cubic miles of liquid space.

Today, as she does every day, the sea held me in that familiar empty-but-nourishing way.

And then I felt my mom.

Mom hasn’t walked the Earth for nearly two years, but her presence was so strong in that moment that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her swim right up to me.

And then I heard, “I can meet you here.”

“Here? In the ocean?” I asked.

“No, here in the emptiness.”

My ensuing grin rivaled my love-struck dolphin smile as I took in those words.

My mom can meet me in the emptiness. The place I found and cherished as a kid. The place I can now find through my breath, the wind, the sky, or through my beloved ocean.

“Was it always you here with me?” I asked. “Were you the presence I felt as a kid? Is that why it felt so good?”

“No, Claire. It was you. It was always you. You meet yourself here.”  

Funny how it never occurred to me that I could be the one nourishing myself. That I could be the one creating this delicious feeling of peace and wholeness.

“Thanks Mom,” I said into my snorkel. “I still have so much to learn from you.”

 

 

~photo by Lisa Denning

I don’t have to tell you that you’re going to die.

If there’s anything about life that we all agree on, it’s that these bodies we inhabit don’t live forever.

Death is coming soon for some of us, and it’s decades away for others. But we all know it’s in our future. And in the futures of those we love.

And yet, while some of us plan for death, and others spend endless hours cowering in fear about how and when Death will knock at our door, I’ve found that something changes when you choose to know Death.

My mother died 20 years before we thought she’d go. In the face of such a gross miscalculation, I was forced to look Death in the eye.

I followed the classic cycle—denial, anger, bargaining, depression… But when I stopped thrashing my arms and legs against the truth, I found the courage to welcome Death into my living room so I could get to know him.

A figure appeared—dark and shadowy, but also soft. And kind.

I am small and powerless in the face of Death, but when I met his gaze, I saw that he was not here to scare me. Or bully me. Or force me to run and hide.

No.

Oddly enough, he gently reached out his hand, placed it on my heart, and said, “Here. Live from here.”

His touch wasn’t icy cold, and it didn’t steal my breath. Rather, it was warm, and I felt seen. As I opened my heart to know Death, he showed me that he knows me too.

In that moment, it became clear to me that Death isn’t the monster we make him out to be. He isn’t the villain, and he isn’t the opposite of life.

He defines life.

Death creates the boundaries within which we work and play and love. Death urges us to make babies. And art. To birth something that will outlive us.

There is a Zen meditation technique designed to bring our attention to death. It asks you to focus on the space between the out-breath and the in-breath. That moment where you are in need of oxygen, but you haven’t yet begun to pull any into your lungs.

In that void is the reminder that we do not breathe beyond the edges of death.

Each inhale is a gift.

Death told me to use my remaining breaths to live from my heart. That’s my biggest lesson. Out of my head and into my heart.

What’s your lesson?

What are you being asked to do while you’re on this side of Death’s embrace?

 

~photo by Lisa Denning

“Hey Sistah!” my friend shouted.

Ed lives on the pier just beyond the rock wall, and he’s often sitting on the wall, in the little bit of shade that a nearby tree provides, offering well-wishes to all of the passersby.

He swung his hand around in a circle and flashed me the ‘hang loose’ hand sign. “All riiiight,” he said. “It’s shaky out there today, Sis. Be careful.”

“I will!” I hollered, as I returned the hand sign.

I walked down the path, looking out at the waves. It was quite the show. Waves were coming in, as you’d expect, but they were also going out — the momentum of incoming waves was creating outbound waves as the water reverberated off the rocky shore. The two would meet in spectacular double crashes that slammed in both directions at once, like the ocean was clapping her hands, producing a momentary turquoise wall that rose 10 feet above the surface.

“So beautiful!” I shouted to no one as I continued my stroll.

I slowly found my way to my favorite spot on the beach, and began to arrange my things and get my gear on. I was in no hurry.

Island time had finally found me.

I used to think that ‘island time’ simply meant ‘late.’ As in, “The meeting was at 8:00 but he’s on island time so he showed up at 10:00.”

Sometimes it does mean ‘late,’ or ‘relaxed timing.’ Even the IRS deadline for Hawaii tax returns is a few days later than the rest of the country.

But island time can also mean ‘in the right time.’ People here trust the timing of things, rather than always attempting to make the world bend to their wills and fit into their artificial calendars.

Island life requires that we remember we’re not in charge. The wind, the rain, the sun, the ocean…they’re all more powerful than we are. And then there are the volcanoes. Kilauea is producing quite the display these days, highlighting the power of Mother Earth to create and destroy as she pleases.

Luckily, we don’t have to fight the elements.

We can surrender.

One of the magic lessons I’ve learned here is that surrender doesn’t mean I’ve lost.

Rather, it means, in the moment of surrender, that I’ve chosen to lay down my arms against what-is. I’ve chosen to stop pretending that whatever is happening isn’t happening. To stop wishing that I, or he, or she, or the circumstances, were different.

Surrender means I’ve decided to join forces with truth. To link arms and hold hands with the fact that it’s raining today. Or that a tree root has broken our water pipe and we’ll be without running water for the next 6 hours. Or that I’m profoundly sad, or ashamed, or terrified.

When I surrender, Truth reaches out a hand towards me and offers me friendship.

“You’re sad,” Truth says. “What are you grieving?”
“You’re feeling ashamed,” says Truth. “I hear you. Tell me more.”

Truth doesn’t fix the situation, but rather simply joins me in it. And somehow that’s enough to burst the bubble of anger towards reality, or shame about my fear, or whatever is in the way of me taking my next breath.

And that next breath, in all it’s splendid simplicity, is enough to get me to the next breath.

And the next.

And, at some point, whatever I was cowering from in fear, or running away from in shame, or crumpling under in sadness…

At some point, I have the strength to look it in the eye and say, “Yes.”

Yes, I am hurt.
Yes, I made a mistake.
Yes, I am lost.

“Yes,” Truth says. “Now take my hand. We’ll take the next step together.”

Today it wasn’t fear or shame that I was being asked to turn towards.

Only waves.

Gorgeous, powerful, turquoise waves that could tumble me into the rocks if I chose to disrespect them.

Today, surrender meant bowing down to the power of the ocean, asking if she’d let me in, and if she agreed, waiting patiently for the moment she chose to open her doors.

I’ve learned to sidestep time in these moments. To connect so deeply with the sea that I can feel the motion of the waves inside of me.

My breath became slow and steady. I could see the next wave before it built.

Rise…………crash
Rise…………crash
Riiiiise…………CRASH
Riiise…………Crash
Rise…………slosh
Rise…………slosh

I clambered down the rocks and dove in.

 

photo by Rusty Orr

The bay was alive with the sleek, gray bodies of my finned friends.

Elders, babies, mamas, papas. A community of 80 dolphins, mostly asleep, gliding in slow, graceful circles.

I floated motionless at the surface and peered into the sea. Ten sweet faces looked up at me. They continued their ascent, surfacing to breathe on all sides of me.

A wave of peace washed over me and I felt my heart expand.

As I awaited the next group of sleeping spinners, I heard a delightful chattering of squeaks and clicks. Three juveniles were chasing each other in and out of the water, penetrating the silence like a splash of red paint on a pale blue canvas.

I giggled, and cooed, and then proceeded to sigh like a lovesick teenager.

A young’un who appeared to be resisting sleep, like all good children do, swam right up to me and looked me in the eye as if to say, “look what I can do!” and then launched himself in the air.

Splash!

He wiggled his tail fin in a victory dance, and bobbed his head in my direction.

Mama was waiting for him about 10 feet down. He swam over to her in excitement, nursed, and then the two of them began to cuddle-swim as they turned towards the rest of the pod.

But before swimming off, they both paused, looked back at me, then circled back, and snuggled up within centimeters of my face.

I wanted to hug them so intensely that I wrapped my arms around myself and squealed.

 

~photo by Lisa Denning

I was just a few minutes from shore. The water was cloudy, as was the sky, so it was a bit like swimming in pale blue milk.

Through the near-opaque water, I saw something dark. It began to rise in the water, spiraling up towards me.

A manta ray.

The manta ray.

My friend, the manta ray who has my mother’s eyes.

I first met this manta ray several months after my mother died in these very waters. Seeing my mother in the manta helped me take a huge step towards healing from her sudden death. At that moment, I knew my mom was with me — then and forever more — gliding through my favorite bay, whispering wisdom to me from across the veil.

Today, my friend the manta had more than my mother’s eyes. She also had my mother’s propensity to dance at the slightest provocation. Wings outstretched, she is 7 ft across. Gracefully flying through the water, she came to my left side, her right wingtip mere inches from my face.

I giggled.

Trying not to move a muscle in hopes that she’d come close again, I caught the manta’s eye, and sensed that she was a bit bored with my response to her ballet.

Slowly, I uncurled my ‘wings,’ dove down, and did my hillbilly best at flying through the water like my aquatic friend. She was intrigued, it seemed, as she ramped up her own display, somersaulting backwards while moving towards me, so we met belly-to-belly for a moment.

I dove again, did a barrel roll, and came out flapping my wings. She responded by taking another few elegant passes through the water, swimming in a large circle around me.

Then she dove deep, taking her dance where I could not follow.

“Thanks for the visit, Mom,” I said quietly as I put my hands first to my chest and then out towards the manta, sending her my love, and a promise that I’d be back tomorrow.

. . .

The above story is an excerpt from my book, Reconcile.

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