I am in Southern California (SoCal) on sabbatical. Yes. Yes I am. I am on sabbatical. (I know, I already said that.)
Did you know that the word sabbatical comes from the word sabbath? Of course you did. Well, I didn’t ever think about it. It’s not like a mother gets every seventh year (or seventh day) off work to “rest, or acquire new skills and training”. Nonetheless, here I am executing a “period of rest” from my customary work.
Normally, I come to SoCal in January to get away from the dark season—lest I be seduced by the corruptive and addictive dark side of the Force, and cast as a Sith Lord in the next Star Wars movie.
I come to California alone to unwind the effects that Seasonal Affective Disorder along with emotional overwhelm have on my life. While I walked along the beach on my first day, I realized that I worked really hard in 2015—as a writer, as a mother, and as a seeker of knowledge, wisdom, and right action. I realized that this year—my seventh year parenting Faven—I have earned a sabbatical.
It seems that God started the first sabbatical—so it must be a good idea. After creating the universe in six days, He ceased work on the seventh day, and after that every seventh year was a sabbatical year where no planting was done, and the people and the land rested and rejuvenated. The church and academia picked up on the concept, and offered a sabbatical every seventh year to clergy and professors. According to The Sabbatical Coach, “This stepping outside one of our most insidious false identifications (the mistaken belief that I am my job) gives access to immense personal freedom and spiritual renewal. In fact the freedom to explore beyond the bounds of our normal routine is often essential if we are to connect deeply with ourselves and our vision for what is next in life.”
I am met at the San Diego airport by my inner self, and I am always so happy to feel her presence. I know, this sounds crazy, but it is the only way I can describe it. There are pieces of my authentic self that cannot exist in my Calgary life, and I miss those pieces, because—of course—they make me whole.
The ocean.
The ocean has rhythms and moods, and it changes dramatically in short periods of time. Naturally adaptive. My first afternoon here, it poured rain. I put on my rain gear, and headed onto the beach; oddly, I was completely alone. (Smile) The ocean had an angry sound, a thunderous crashing upon the sand that vibrated inside my body like a massage. The next day, the ocean rumbled—hungry, or seeking; reaching out and tumbling over itself, again, and again.
The sand.
The fine sand that spreads for miles is like the cover of a book. It is much more than it appears. When I drag my heel through it, a black track forms. Down near the break water, the sand becomes a series of veins, or roots, where pathways of water flow with ease. And the ocean erases the steps and missteps; every single day you get to start over without any visible mark or reminder of what came before, all there is is this moment.
In 2012, I wrote about Jonathan Livingston Seagull on my Mumfullness blog. The California Seagulls are companions on my journey, whereas the Canadian Seagulls are scruffy, dirty, and noisy. Moreover, I am quite fearful of birds in general. I don’t like their unpredictability, and I have been known to throw an entire tray of french fries when attacked by seagulls in Vancouver.
But on the beach, where they congregate in a supportive flock, I can watch them for lengthy periods, in the same peaceful way that one watches a newborn. Standing on the beach, they don’t do much, but their feathers create a picture of softness, and when their necks are turned and beaks are tucked into their back, they look like solemn meditators.
Three times yesterday, a teenage girl ran toward a group of fifty or more birds, and they quickly took flight—toward me. Instead of screaming and laying face down in the sand—something I have also been known to do in the past—I stood still and watched. The fact that they can untuck their wings so quickly and take flight seems almost miraculous. They soared over the water and land, above, beside, and along with me.
At the beach I am united with the seagulls, they are attracted to me, and even when I have retired to my patio table at the end of the day, they sit, just on the bluff, in front of the patio railing, and I am certain they are watching over me.
Water balloons
There are these little rubber blobs on the beach. The ocean has pulled them from their natural habitat, torn them apart, and laid them haphazardly along the shoreline. The vines that once held them securely in the water, lack the strength upon land, and tiny water balloons are scattered across the wet sand. They are the same colour and texture as a tourniquet (the rubber strap that gets wrapped around your upper arm when you get blood drawn). I love to step on them. They make a pop like a perfect grape makes in your mouth when you crunch down.
Stepping on them as I walk across the beach is like playing a video game and getting all the red or pink stars. Every time I hear the crunch and feel the pop, I feel like I have been given bonus points, or extra “life”. However, sometimes I step on them and they sink right into the sand, what a let down.
People
An elderly couple, spines already bent from aging, shuffle along the beach—jogging. Their matching outfits, white hair, and attentiveness to each other makes me smile.
Young men with toques and shorts play frisbee on the beach. They are eager like dogs, and begin their run for the frisbee before it ever leaves the hand of their mate.
Small children chase the tide in and out with giggles erupting out of them with the same rumbling cadence as the wave. I want small children. I mean, not right now on the crest of turning 50, but I want to go back and do it over again with my children.
A petite woman holds her smart phone in one hand, gazing at it fleetingly, and then moving her body in some meditative dance. I laugh; if she needs her phone as a guide, she cannot really be letting go, and having the spirit move through her.
Yesterday I walked to the pharmacy to buy a wrist brace. After I made the purchase, I spoke to the young male pharmacist. “I’m on holiday here, and my tendonitis is acting up . . so is the arthritis in my big toe (I lifted my foot, as if her were superman, and could see through my shoe), and—Oh—such an ache in my back.” He stared at me. “I think it’s the humidity,” I said.
What am I, like, a 50-year-old grama?
I pulled my ball cap down, and walked out muttering to myself, because it also seems that when I am on my own, I talk to myself.
A sabbatical is the “extended absence in the career of an individual in order to achieve something”. I am achieving rhythm, and peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment