Wanderlust in the Time of Coronavirus (A GeoEx eBook)

Wanderlust in the Time of Coronavirus

Starting Over: A Pilgrimage to Stinson Beach

serene scene: tan-brown sand, foot-high white-frothing waves breaking into a million diamonds on the beach, then a succession of larger waves curling and white-cresting, and beyond those breakers, blue-green water extending all the way to the horizon, where purple-gray clouds massed like a mountain range. The sun warmed my shoulders like a hot compress, the air smelled faintly of salt from the sea, wisps of sea-brume wafted by me, and all around the waves played their pulsing roar, a ceaseless pounding in my head and in my core. I closed my eyes to empty my mind, then opened them and tried to absorb this new-old scene: the blue sky overhead, the green hills behind, the boulders on my left and right, the sand in front, and then the swaddling sea. I let the sun and the breeze and the waves wash over me. I sat and stared, sat and stared, for a half-hour or more. I told myself not to demand anything, not to expect anything, but just to let it be. I felt myself quiet and quiet, slow and slow—and then, when I had lost track of time, I suddenly felt something reaching out to me. The sea was wrapping me in its watery embrace. And then I felt something inside me stretch and sigh and break. All the trials of the past half-year flowed through me—not just mine, but those of our whole human tribe. All the death and suffering, all the sadness and loss. I realized how many wounds I had accumulated in the past months, how many wounds we had all collectively absorbed. And I realized how many of these wounds, mine and others, had simply been ignored. And then I was filled with a suffusing sense of peace. And I heard a voice that wasn’t mine, but somehow spoke inside me, say: Go with the flow—this is nature’s way. At that moment, I let go. Let the wounds wash back into the sea. And then I sensed a great balm of healing, a great cleansing

blue-green balm flowing over me. Take your time; you have time , I heard the voice say. We have been through a lot—but the world remains, and so much that we love is still the same. Take time to appreciate the small things, the everyday. Be grateful for the gift of life, of family, and friends, and love. I sat and simply surrendered to this scene. And then I did something I’ve never done before: I got up and walked into the waves, up to my knees. I stood there a long time, feeling the swirl and swell of the sea, the pull of the tide, the planet spinning in eternity. I gave myself to this feeling of losing everything, letting go, becoming free. And as I stood in the water and the waves splashed my knees, unexpected feelings of joy surged up within me. Part of this joy was the realization of the journey I’d made: After months of staying at home, I had traveled to a special place I’d been wanting to go. On this marvel-filled end-of-May afternoon, this seemed an intimation and affirmation of the trips we will all be making again soon. Another part of my joy was a journey that was completely new: I had found wounds that I needed to embrace and set free before I could begin this year anew—and I had found the permission, perspective, and power to make this come true. We all have a sacred place, I feel, that holds wisdom in store and that, when the time is right, opens the door. Your place is waiting for you. That’s what I learned in my Stinson Beach home: Two and a half months is a drop in the ocean of time, and the places we love will still abide—and will embrace us with joy when we once again roam. Until then, I learned, I should embrace the mantra “Let it be.” And I should be grateful for all of the gifts that everyday life, even in a time of pandemic, bestows on me.

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