I once found myself walking along Ocean Beach on the western edge of San Francisco. The sun was beginning its late afternoon fall to the sea. We were all cast in an intensifying light. If you had been there, you would have been moved by its beauty.
I wasn’t. My attention was wrapped up in the stranded seaweed rotting on the shore, the blustery winds off the Pacific, and the pounding waves. They mirrored my inner landscape.
I was in a fit, brimming with emotions. I cursed, I cried, and I laughed as I walked along the water’s edge. The wind’s direction and intensity may have been the only thing for which I felt a shred of gratitude during that walk. Calmer weather would have made my psychological state more visible and frightened other beach goers.
As God knew, I (and my wife) had moved to California the previous year so that I could study Buddhism, Hinduism, and Chinese Philosophy. We did this without building a local network, without arranging jobs, and without securing a reasonably priced apartment.
From my head, I could hear how irrational and irresponsible this was.
From my heart, I believed I was responding to a real divine call.
From my gut—the part that feels the leap and fall from a great height—I wondered. How long could our shared beliefs, our student loans, and entry level jobs carry us? Would providence appear and when? Would our lives ever move into a state of flow—like we were riding an ocean breeze in the right direction.
Now in our second year, money was a constant worry. Despite the budgeting and bill pay systems we implemented, we felt deprived and our balance sheet was a disaster.
An even greater concern was my wife’s depression. She, I, and we visited counselors but nothing worked. Medications were mentioned and declined. The ink marks on her arm–indicating times when she felt an urge to cut herself–became a yardstick for measuring her days and ours.
The culmination was simple. “I am moving back at the end of the term. Will you come with me?”
I didn’t know.
Didn’t know what I would do.
Didn’t know (anymore) if it truly was call that had brought me here.
If it was call, I didn’t know why it had been so hard.
And if it was love and meant to last, I didn’t know why we couldn’t be happy here.
That’s what the tears, laughter, and cussing were all about on that beach walk.
Before I had any answers, I sensed something in my periphery move in the water.
I stopped and turned. It was just water–cresting and falling waves of water.
I turned back and started to walk. Again, I sensed something to my right. This time, I located 2 eyes in the water as I turned. One second they were looking in my direction, the next they were gone. It was very confusing and I was very unsteady. Was I having some kind of a break? Could I still tell what was real?
At the low point in the next wave, the eyes reappeared but now as part of a dark, soft domed head. It brought many more questions to mind. What was it? Could it be a stray dog, injured or snagged on some seaweed? Maybe. What the hell was I going to do? I didn’t have tools or a plan for rescuing it. And, how might it respond to a stranger approaching? Would I end up making matters worse? And if it was in danger, why did it seem so calm. Why was it looking at me?
Click.
This was a harbor seal. We were meeting on the borders of our respective neighborhoods.
Boom.
Back to stomping down the beach at water’s edge. Back to feeling that God owed me something. Back to questions, none of the answers, and all of the emotions. Big drama. Walking. Questioning. Crying. On and on and on.
At some point, my mind wandered back to the animal in the water. Never before had I seen one up close. Not in the wild, not in my neighborhood. Never had I held one’s gaze. I envisioned living on that beach for many, many years and never experiencing that wonder again. I had received some type of a gift, answered, “No thanks” and stormed away.
I felt so ashamed.
I stopped, turned, and scanned back over the beach front for its tiny, elusive head. I had walked so far and sunset was now so close. The water, the sand, the people were increasingly awash with a blurry light. It was utter foolishness to think I might spot him. I had blown it.
But as I turned back to resume my walk, another gift was received.
15 yards away
In the water
Still looking at me
He had mirrored my walk down the shore.
This time, I stopped. Not moving. Not thinking. Not feeling. I was just there with him. I have no words for it and cannot say how long it lasted. I can only tell you how it ended.
Without breaking his gaze, I do recall some awareness of hearing other people. Their conversations would grow and become clear and then fade away as they crossed behind me on the sand. From what I heard, no one was noticing him or me. Nothing interesting was happening for any of them.
When I turned to walk home, he followed again. As I passed others, I would point him out. I know it was real as people saw and acknowledged him. (None seemed to care.) I tried engaging parents with small kids who were far from the water’s edge. The hasty approach of a stranger often startled them (for which I apologized). But, they would scoop up their kids and hustle down to the water.
The kids understood. They got it right away.
I returned to the apartment, the marriage, and to Minnesota. All the worries I had brought to the beach persisted, but they didn’t weigh the same. I understood the Universe and a wet friend would be with me.