“I shall become, I shall become a collector of me. And put meat on my soul.” Sonia Sanchez

My voiceover is paraphrased from the following reflections.

My mind is insistent, always dwelling in a past I cannot change, or in a future that is not decided. There’s this quote I’ve been thinking about lately: “If you are depressed, you’re living in the past. If you are anxious, you’re living in the future.” During the pandemic, I have been able to, for the first time, name and accept that I am deeply familiar with living in these ways. The quote comes from Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu, and there is a third line. “If you are at peace you are living in the present.” As I have learned to own my grief, not only for the large moments of hurt and devastation, but smaller ones too, and learned to own that hyper-vigilance does not by itself build a good life, I’ve been reminded of the usefulness and beauty of truly being present.

My definition of presence does not only mean I am paying attention to each moment as it comes, quieting my mind enough to hear the small animal sounds outside of my window instead of living in windows of time gone or to come. For me, presence has come to mean that I am fully accepting of myself in each moment. In her anxiousness, or sadness, or joy, or peace, a present me does not demand or chastise. She bears witness and reflects on what has brought her to where she is, what may need to shift and what is perfect as it is. She suggests and gives gentle nudges and is honest with herself about what is real and evident right in front of her and what is simply another time trying to break in. She understands that presence is a practice – a challenging, mysterious and captivating practice.

We do live in a world that almost requires that rearing, a mode of survival where you have to always anticipate what may come around the corner or how your behavior or your decisions will affect how the rest of your life unfolds. For people who are vulnerable, subject to violences intimate or systemic, this survival is all too cruel because it speaks to legitimate consequences in our lives. This is one reason why taking realistic time to grieve when I have needed to never seemed like an option. I’ve been navigating the darkness of living that kind of life now, during this pandemic, years and months and weeks and days later. New tragedies knocked at my front door, and then broke into our collective spaces, and I’ve learned bearing witness to the grief of it all will actually be the most important thing for my survival. Not pushing past it, as if it is only a threshold. Not stuffing it down, because there is only so much space inside of my body. Not ignoring, or dismissing, as if it is a small child that has just pointed out a brilliant truth to me that I did not want to hear or accept.

I actually need to invite grief in and offer her a hot tea and a warm bath, beckoning for her to come sit by my fire. There’s an episode of Brené Brown’s podcast Unlocking Us, where guest Dr. Edith Eger says she wants “be the fireplace” – a warm place of refuge for her loved ones. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. For myself, and for a future family, once I’ve completed my work, I want to be the fireplace, the warm hearth where we feel safe to pour out our grief and do not fear those small signs of discomfort or rejection of that grief. Where we know we will be greeted with burning flames of acceptance. Love. Patience. Soft sayings and recounted memories that make us smile or cry as we cross that fragile bridge over deep chasms. As we cross wide oceans of our tears, we remember that salt water is dense and strong and can hold our weight from shore to shore.

I’ve been very invested in looking for escape during the past two years. From the pandemic, from the city, from bills, from efficiency and expectations. So my decision to go car camping one spring morning in 2021 was a small attempt at quieting a desire for escape, a desire for presence. I’d bought a whole SUV so I could go camping out of it. Maybe we should start there. After spending a week that January building a bed platform for the car, this trip would be my first attempt at taking steps toward a life I’d fantasized about for a long time. One where I am surrounded by trees more often than buildings, where I hold a paintbrush or a camera more often than I’m checking my email. One where I will not be tied to a place only because of work or a mortgage. A life where I would be able to grieve at my own pace, rest, and heal, and paint and find joy again and make films and write and read and read and read. A life lived slowly. A free life.

I’d had a bit of a rushed morning on this day: I left the house a bit later than I’d wanted to and then had to change course to get a last minute COVID-19 vaccine. I caught the wrong ferry and ended up driving an hour more than I needed to to get to the campsite. I was a bit frustrated when I got to the beach, stressed about whether I had time to enjoy it before it got dark, wondering how much time I had before the sun set. I’d wanted to film part of the experience, but realized I didn’t have my tripod.

“Presence is a practice. A challenging, mysterious and captivating practice.“

An otter appeared in the surf when I stepped on to the beach, as if I had called to her. At the edge of the ocean she sat, watchful, present, spirited. Now, otters are one of my favorite animals. Seeing her felt like a lightning strike, a small moment of enlightenment, of knowing. A message from God, from Spirit, from the universe, from the Earth itself. “Look around you. Look what you’ve made possible for yourself. Look how your soul asked for something and we provided.” Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, I’ve completed more than one research project on the playful, intelligent, elusive and sleek beings that live in this region, but had until this encounter, only seen in captivity. 

Encounters like this can come at moments when we’re meant to learn something important. Lessons can overflow out of small messengers. I am the kind of person that looks up animal symbolism when I have these repeated or unexpected encounters. You keep finding spiders on your rug – message! Almost get squished by a horse – message!

Here’s what I found for otters: their presence can serve as a reminder to take care of the self, especially if you seek to give back to the world effectively. Flow with the tides of life, rather than tire yourself swimming against them. We have the tools we need to go down our own paths. Otters are an invitation to stay curious, adaptive, expressive of our emotions and unafraid of our individuality. This was such a perfect message for me as I took my first stumbling steps on a journey towards stillness, and peace, and presence. A journey designed to help me embrace an inner self that has been ignored for far too long. 

A constant worry I have is that I am moving too slowly. That I am running out of time to fulfill my potential, to feel truly free, to embrace my youth, to stop worrying, to start planning, to know my dreams and follow them. Despite the frustrations of that day, and the fear of running out of daylight, when I arrived on the beach the universe came to greet me and reminded me that I am right on time. My timing is perfect, and there is no need to worry.

I cooked pasta in the rain that night. I didn’t even check the weather before I left, but I still would’ve gone if I’d seen the rain in the forecast. It was cold and wet, and I was shivering as I stiffly opened the box of gluten free pasta I’d brought. Without an adequate light source, I was struggling to read the directions for my propane stove by the light of a cheap lamp that you can probably buy at a gas station. But I felt so proud of myself. Not only for braving the rain, or for camping by myself on an unfamiliar beach, but for listening to an inner voice that told me the experience was necessary. For not waiting for permission to have this adventure. For, despite what have been hard experiences in my life, staying soft, and open, and flexible to the ways life alters course and finds ways to remind you of who you are. For having trust that I’d find my way. Had I fought against that current, I would’ve missed the otter on that beach.

When I find myself worrying about my timing, and whether I’m running out of space in my life to truly escape the weight of not only the future but also the weight of the past, I remember my timing is perfect, and weightlessness is something I can choose to step into, a feeling less like an untethered kite in the wind and more like a swaying tree with a deep roots and hopeful, reaching branches. If I listen to that small, hope-filled voice inside, and seek peace and play, I will arrive just on time.