Tick Tock, Special Delivery

Elephants, I learned this week, are pregnant for 22 months – longer than any other mammal. And listen to this: mama sea turtles navigate all the way back to the same beach where they were born to lay their eggs, some following the pull of their instinct for thousands of miles to deliver new life to the outside world. The extent mothers go to bear life, I tell ya.

And here I am, doing the same. Well, similar. While I wasn’t technically extracted from my mama’s womb here, I was born at this Floridian beach in other ways over and over again. I learned how to use baby oil to remove tar plops off the bottom of my feet in grade school here. Succumbed to using my first tampon in the middle of spring break here. Worked up the courage to tell my parents a “secret” – that I had hired a life coach – over dinner here. Accepted my first job post college here. Co-created the legs of a documentary film here. And now I’ve come back to fill myself up so I can deliver more creative projects meant to be shared beyond the confines of my brain, tapping into a wise part of myself no matter how long it’s been. Like one of those friends you may not talk to for ages, but no sooner than you hop on the phone, you’re transported to the thick of real connection instantly. You may recall that gorgeous sunset photo now serving as the face of The Deep End, taken a few hundred yards from where I’m sitting. It’s different watching that show here without “your baby right there.” Except, he IS here. Sometimes I think how woo-woo of me to analyze everything, to search for hidden meaning behind our everyday world happenings. Can’t a sunset, a wave, a grain of sand just be what it is, you ask? Yes, sometimes. Except, that’s not always as fulfilling. Or fun.

I’m not sure if you consider yourself an artist, but that’s what artists DO. They find meaning in things, Rebecca told me once in a session. Well, if that’s what artists are, then count me in. The gift of a different perspective. That’s what I’ve gained as a pup mama. But more so, I now catch myself questioning more than just grains of sand. I question the things that irk me, that enrage me, that tug me down or lift me up and say, what is it here that I believe needs to be said, challenged? What warrants more expression? More creation? A few months ago, I tried making new friends at a yoga studio down the street from my house. Naturally, the conversation flowed to pups and loss and fear and grief (what, not everyone strikes up an early conversation that way?). I mentioned Ferg’s passing. Did you have him since he was a puppy? she asked. When I replied no, that he was six when we met, she darted back to her own experience, understandably. She said something like, I’ve had my pup since he was born, he’s 14 now. So you can imagine how sad I’ll be when he goes… I have social skills robust enough to know that was not the time to push back and have a hard conversation while classes transitioned. I barely knew this human. Instead, I made a mental note to come back and process – and likely write about it – later. The other night, this thought came roaring back when I read a sincere, emotional piece I connected with quickly. The voice is so clear, so innocent. There’s also one little line that shifted my anchor, uprooting me. “This is so relatable, especially if you had the opportunity to love one from a young puppy to their old age and beyond…” Screech. There’s the questioning, the searing. My deepest love was not a puppy when we were meant to intersect each others’ lives. In fact, so many great loves come floating in for a fleeting time. Two years. Eight months. An afternoon.

I am convinced: the greatest impressions formed by carved pathways in each other’s hearts have no correlation with the amount of time during which we intertwine. Like picking up that phone with a soulmate friend, we return where we need to be despite the number of days passed.

It’s a massive obstacle for me (and much of the western world) to not be ruled by the clock. In my day-to-day, I glance at the digits on a screen attempting to keep in rhythm with where I’m expected to be. It’s awful. And takes a big ole shift – and time (ironically) for me to counter that way of life during a breather vacation. The most valuable aha moments never come when I’m pressed for time. They emerge when I’m lost in my own meditation, or journaling, or showering, or drifting in crystal sea waves. Interesting, eh?

Last night, I watched as a couple made their way back inside their beach condo right after the sun dipped behind the ocean. An avid sunset watcher, I know by now that the more wispy clouds in the sky, the more flamboyant and striking the display will likely become. So, I stayed. And good lord, wouldn’t you know, half the sky was radiant in water colors after the sun was “gone” – more than when that orange ball was visible to the eye.

That’s what our greatest love provides us when we wait for a beat and welcome the pause. There’s magic in savoring time knowing its impermanence. And there’s mystery in the forthcoming surprises despite it.

Knowing this magnificence extends beyond physical bodies has brought me enormous comfort during this past year of next-level grief. So much so, that I’m calling on my inner artist to help design how I may express it with more people. Next month marks the one-year anniversary of Ferg crossing over: a fitting time for me to provide a glimpse into what happened now that I’ve gained space and time to process. I’ll also share the number one nugget that helped transform my grief from “I’m stuck in the mud suffocating” to “now I can breathe above the surface.”

Until then, this mama will be over here making meaning from more sunsets.