Weight and floating
The trip was a day away. I pulled out my journal and scribbled a few half-digested sentences about the weight I felt of the past few weeks. The pen flew across the page as I described the items that felt cumbersome, and those that loomed like gray clouds on a July evening. I wanted lightness, or at least a lightening - to have the poorly done, the undone, and the unknown removed and tossed like my son’s lunchbox upon returning from school. With these thoughts sat the realization that this lightening was more than a task to be completed. I wanted this lightening to be done for me, not from me. I tossed the ideas next to my sunscreen and towels, unsure whether they’d be examined again.
Our family arrived and hurried to the beach. The flour-soft sand gave under our steps. Palm trees rustled in a perpetual breeze nothing like the glass edged wind from home. My attempts to describe the ocean’s complexion were cobbled and weak, akin to visiting flatlander’s describing our mountains as ‘big.’ Our kids floated in the ocean’s toothpaste green water - their bodies made buoyant by salt and two years of anticipation finally released.
We snorkeled a lot over the next week. The reef was only 30 yards from shore. (Sidenote: Is there a better or more official uniform of wonder than a snorkel mask? The protruding eyes and periscoping snorkel demolish any hints of fashion or subtlety.) The water shimmered with pockets of fish the color of my daughter’s highlighters. Barracuda sulked on the ocean floor, wearing a sneer that would make even De Niro proud and offer to share his cannoli. However my favorite creature was the one not three feet away from me at all times. The one with near-glowing swim trunks and whose legs pulsed with a spastic kick. HIs love of water, evident since birth, was only growing.
Amidst this barrage of colorful discovery was the awareness of floating. Back floats were always the worst part of my swim lessons as a boy. It was too boring and required patience, a trait which felt entirely contradictory to the very premise of a swimming pool. But in the salty pulse of the waves my body was easily suspended. Treading water felt natural, as if the water was some solid-liquid hybrid that could be pressed against and not through.
Part way through the week we went fishing, hoping for a catch that would dwarf the palm sized bluegill and rainbows we were accustomed to. Our boat traveled past the breaking seam of waves where we met a swamp cooler like wind. The unimpressive blue horizon from shore was now a swell of waves rocking our boat like a deranged carnival ride. Needless to say, the catch of the day was nausea, not yellowfin.
Thankfully, as the waves churned and changed, we stayed afloat. The sleek 20 foot boat that had preened on the dock now resembled a bath toy. Even so, we rode the waves.
Perhaps it makes sense that my paradigm coming into the trip was one based on weight. Adventures into the mountains of home usually require some management of weight. Whether removing unnecessary items from your backpack, or balancing panniers on a packhorse, weight is a constant adversary to contend with.
But the ocean seemed to be governed by a different set of physics. Her volume of water was endless. Her waves pulsed and pulled and slung and slid. Carrying something was not only laughable, it was inaccurate. Floating was the primary engagement. It was as if a new realm was entered, defined by volume not weight. The weight did not disappear so much as it was rendered irrelevant when placed within trillions of gallons of saltwater. My burden was still there. But now it was floated and tossed in an environment that both dwarfed and invited me.
Metaphorizing the ocean seems ripe for trite conclusions, especially when done by a landlocked Coloradoan. And yet, I was left wondering about weight and floating. There was a resonance not in the focus and measurement of my burden, but instead asking about the environment in which that weight is located. Is it the mountain scenario where weight must be mitigated? Or, am I in an ocean that does not erase or discard my weight, but suspends it in immensity and wonder?
I recalled a conversation from 20 years ago in a hole in the wall restaurant in Eastern Alberta with one of my Bible College Professors. I peppered him with questions about grace and the character of God. In between bites of delicious sesame chicken, he said “Grace is the environment we swim in.”
What about your weight? Is it a load to manage and carry, or does it float in the Divine’s invitation and presence?
Jesse French
