There's something about the ocean. The vastness of it, maybe, or the wildness. Something about being near the ocean allows me to experience God in ways that I don't anywhere else. A year ago this week, I took a trip to Cancún with two of my very best friends. It was there that I wrote the following:
I am reminded this morning, as I stand in the ocean and feel its power and listen to its roar, that God is bigger than my pain. I am also reminded of the beautiful truth that He knows the depth and magnitude of my pain, and that He is feeling it with me. While knowing this does not lessen the sting, it helps put my aching, restless heart at peace.
I am reminded that He delights in me. That He knows every inch of my wild and desperate heart and He delights in me, in all the ways I've always longed to be delighted in. He knows me in all the ways I've always longed to be known. For Him, I am enough.
I am also reminded that He doesn't need my words. He sees and knows my every thought, every feeling, every fear, every wish, every hope. For now, perhaps, it is enough to simply be broken in His presence and to know that I am understood. (09.09.2016)
Like I said, there's something about the ocean.
I've known for a couple of months now that I wanted to go back to the ocean after the divorce was final. To be away, to clear my head, to say goodbye.
There are so many rituals associated with marriage: the wedding ceremonies with the rings and the vows and the unity ceremonies and what have you. There are no rituals when you get divorced. It's just over. For all of the rituals that marked the beginning of my marriage, there are none to acknowledge the end of it, to represent the breaking and the undoing. There are no separation ceremonies. It's a death without a funeral. This has been a difficult thing for me to process, wanting and needing closure and having to stumble around in the dark to find it all by myself. It has made grieving all the more difficult.
Unity ceremonies are common wedding rituals. A physical representation and reminder of two becoming one. At my wedding, we poured sand.
Three days ago I poured that sand into the ocean.
I fought hard for a long time in hopes of salvaging what was left of my marriage. Once it became clear to me that I was the only one fighting a losing battle, I had to start fighting to let go. I still am. Standing in the ocean that morning as the sun came up was a big step forward in that fight. It didn't occur to me until afterward that pouring my unity sand was just like spreading ashes. For me it was an acknowledgement, both of my marriage and of the death of it. A way to honor my breaking and the end of something that was so sacred to me. It was a release, a farewell. This was my letting go.
I'm beginning to notice a shift. It feels a little like transitioning from moving through to moving away from. I still have a long way to go, but it finally feels like forward motion. It finally feels like healing.
And I know I'm gonna be okay.
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