Love and the Metaphorical Sea

The ocean is a part of me and forever will be ... from my days as a tow-headed little girl on the Carolina shore clad with only bikini bottoms and a shovel for a day of adventure, through an adolescence of walking the wide, flat beaches of Kiawah Island, to my time as a busy mother who yearns to go to the sea but has not been in awhile.  The ocean washed away bitter tears the night my father died and the ashes of my dear grandmother, scattered by my mother and me, at sunrise under Johnny Mercer pier.

For me, the ocean is God’s most powerful natural tool to tantalize the senses.  I love the way the sea sounds as it crashes to shore.  I love the brackish smell of salt water.  I love how the sea feels – warm and encompassing—around my skin as I dive in after a long run on shore.  The ocean comes closest to the sensual perfection two lovers can create.  But, if I’m honest, I am frightened of it as well.  

My protective instincts as a mother make me wary of the sea.  When I took Ben swimming in Wrightsville in 2007, swollen and pregnant with James, I remember how tightly I held on to him and how unwilling I was to let him venture out too far on his own.  I wrestle with how to teach my sons to both embrace and fear the sea—especially when almost equally in my life I have feared it and been drawn to it.  When I have experienced much of my life’s greatest pain on the shores of it and have spent many of my life’s most sensual, happy moments there as well.

I have often thought when I am old, I would like to build a home on the sea and fill it with books, and recipes, and wine, and guest bedrooms … and live out my waning days watching the tides come and go.

In September, along the Carolina shore, whether the hurricane pattern for the season is bringing storms to the Gulf, along the Florida coast, or up the mouth of the Cape Fear River, the waves and the undertow are unusually strong.  But the warm water is perfect for those strong swimmers willing to brave it.

When I lived in Wilmington in 1999, I went with friends to Masonboro Island by boat in September.  It’s an uninhabited island south of Wrightsville, perfect for camping or picnicking or long walks.  As we sat on the shore, eating, drinking, and enjoying the hot, windy day, I noticed the waves getting bigger and bigger.  When I stepped into the water—where the small waves usually lap at your feet gently—I was almost knocked over by the strong tide.  

To this day, I’m not sure what got in to me, but I decided to swim past the wave breaks so I could float in the deeper water.  I fought wave after massive wave and noticed that the forceful undertow was moving me further and further down the beach, away from my friends.  It was hard to judge how far down shore I was drifting because the usual markers of civilization – hotels, houses, and water towers -- were not there to help me judge.  For whatever reason, I felt certain that if I could just make it to the deeper water, I’d feel safe.

I did finally get past the waves.  I floated in the warm water for a long time-- a little weary from my journey, a little drunk from the wine on shore, a little overwhelmed by the powerful sound of quiet, the warmth on my skin, the taste of salt, and the beauty of it all. 

I am not sure what awoke me from my floating half-slumber, but I remember the abruptness of the change from contented bliss to fear.  Fear of the swim back to shore, fear that I had strayed too far, fear quite simply of the ocean.  It was jarring. 

The fight back to shore was much harder than the swim in.  Every time my tired arms and legs would make 10 feet of progress, the current would pull be back.  For a moment, I even felt panic.  Could I make it back to shore?  Do I even want to go back to shore yet?  I felt peace past the waves ... the kind of naked, pure peace you can only feel in deep water.

When I finally got to a point where I could stand, I paused for awhile—caught my breath, looked over my shoulder at the waves and the place beyond them.  I entertained swimming back for awhile.  But my arms and legs were shaking from the exertion, and I realized I did not have the strength to go back. 

I waited for the next seventh wave and rode it in.  It was massive and foamy, and it deposited me with a thud onto the shallow shore of broken shells and sand.  When I stood in the knee-deep water, I was disoriented, dizzy … I felt a little bit broken.

I waded back to the beach and began the half-mile journey back to my friends, our picnic, and my wine.  I was a woman in search of her towel … in search of a place to rest, to pick seashells out of my shoulder, and to stare at the ocean I do not understand and marvel at her from the safety of shore.

That Woman Is A Success...

When I was a senior in high school, I gave a speech to the Women's Executive Club in Charlotte about my mom.  I remember I quoted a poem in the speech -- "That Woman is a Success."  I searched for it online recently to no avail.  But as I recall, it was anodyne stuff to put it mildly. 

But the purpose of my oratory wasn't actually to consider what "success" meant.  I wrote the speech quite simply to defend my working mother.  To say to a room full of women who I wanted to nod in approval, "my mother worked and I am ok.  I survived.  I am not developmentally challenged."  Such was my feminism at the time -- self-righteous and sure.  And I carried that self-righteous feminism with me through law school and into a certain feminism professor’s buzzsaw.  Shortly after law school and that buzzsaw, I had my doubts that feminism meant women should do what men do and that women are just like men are.  I became even more convinced that wasn't true when I had babies and I witnessed something I'd denied for most of my life-- that women and men are fundamentally different in some ways.  And they are most different in how they parent.  Or that, at least, has been my experience.

I used to opine about the three prongs to my "successful" existence.  I think in the 90s and inspired by my legal training, my three prongs had two sub-prongs.  I don't remember the sub-prongs any more, but I do always remember my three passions.  They are just as Betrand Russell said they were for him:  

"Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a great ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.

 I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy - ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness--that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what--at last--I have found.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.

 Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate this evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.

 This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me."

I have sought love first and with the greatest degree of difficulty in my life.  Having supportive, communicative, loving relationships is surely how I find most of my sense of "success" (and my sense of failure when I screw up).  I did not know unconditional, throw-yourself-in-front-of-a-train love until my son Ben was born, and that brought with it an even deeper sense of commitment and even deeper guilt on dark days when I feel I am not giving my sons my all.  I find "love" the hardest thing to "work" on too, especially in a happy marriage.  We fall into patterns and routines, and usually we don't ask ourselves: "Am I loving this person the best way I can?" "How can I communicate better?"  "How can I allay fears?"  Challenging ourselves in these ways is difficult stuff and for the most part we avoid doing it.

My other two passions are the search for knowledge and the search for ways to alleviate others' pain.  Those play themselves out in many ways, but mostly they play an important role in why I am a U.S. diplomat ... because it gives me a sense that I am becoming more knowledgeable and acquiring experiences and that I am helping others.  I strive and fail mightily in these categories too of course. 

In my job, I see my achievement orientation and my competitive spirit.  I don't like it most of the time, but I see it.  I note with interest how I will send home to my parents news of some success at work and purr like a cat being rubbed when they praise me.  I know too that I felt "successful" when I had a very good job in the Department two years ago and that work was something I wanted others to know about me ... much like I want people to know I'm a lawyer.  Why is that important?  Why is other people's recognition of some outward "success" important to me?  I don't know.  My parents were valedictorians and my grandmother wanted me to be President.  It's in my genes I suppose.  Most days I think that I am more moved by the drive to learn and help than by the baser desires to please, achieve, and "win"... but I'd be lying if I said those baser desires weren't there pushing me on like a Chinese mother.  Making me burn my candle at every conceivable end.  Making me sleep with my Blackberry on my chest.

I once asked a woman I admire how you can "have it all."  She had the best answer.  She said "you can't...not at the same time."  Something always has to give.  When you give in one place, you have less capacity to give in another.  It is the sickening zero sum reality of modern, exhausted living.  When you perform some promotion-inspiring feat, you often miss bath-time.  When you stay up making a project and cupcakes for your child's 100th day of school and go with him to celebrate, you miss that conference call your boss wanted you to attend.  If you stay home with your children as your life's work, you think working moms' lives are glamorous.  If you work, you deeply envy a mother's time to watch the daily miracles in her child's life. 

In short, only you can define what your passions are and how you pursue them.  Even if you haven't assigned them in prongs and subprongs, you know what they are.  And only your tummy (that wonderful place where the wisdom of your head and the passion of your heart meet) can tell you in what measure to pursue your various passions.  Know this too -- no matter what you decide, you will always feel that you are not giving something or someone enough of you.

So my definition of success is this: 

·         Knowing what passions will govern your life and pursuing them with energy and focus (not just going through the motions or leading a life of quiet desperation).

·         Pursuing your passions with balance and the knowledge that excess in one requires loss in another, thus causing a never-ending, constantly shifting pursuit to be disciplined enough to give and do what you can when you can.

·         Forgiving yourself for the days and the moments when you fail to find balance, or when you fancy that someone's life is choiceless unlike yours and so much easier, or when you judge another, or worse yourself, for not getting the balance just right. 

If you can walk this path and keep getting better at it, you are a success.