Still waters
Same dock, different day, when the waters were moving.
Perched on my parents’ dock over the Onancock Creek (Chesapeake Bay), I observed the slack tide. This phenomenon occurs when tidal currents are weakest, often in the brief window between ebb and flow.
I sat facing out. The creek in front of me was dead quiet, and behind me it barely rippled. Where there was any movement at all, the tide seemed conflicted. The waters were matched in heaviness by the humid air that curled my hair, and the sun was still rising, out of sight. Jellyfish and gnats swirled below and above me, with no clear direction.
I sat on the no-frills wooden T, feet dangling over the water. I could relate to the creek’s confusion. Every year at midsummer, I feel torn between the loose freedom of the season and my desire for fall’s structure and grounding. Stuck in the middle. Impatient for what’s next, but not ready to change. Betwixt and between.
Feeling connected to natural rhythms usually comforts me. But on this day, it unsettled me. The stillness felt more oppressive than calming. Heavy and portentous, not peaceful. Even my breath seemed uneasy, uncertain, unassured.
It was an unusually challenging nature sit, but eventually I unearthed the questions:
What thoughts and emotions come up for you around stillness? In the absence of direction? Around the word “slack”?
How are you experiencing that—here, today, in this moment?
What is it like beneath the surface of still waters? What may become visible or possible there?
Where there is fear, distrust, or resistance, how might you open and explore?
Is there something to trust here? To rest in? What would that feel like?
I did not find precise answers, but I did locate a provisional ease. I’ll take it.
I hope these questions help you too, if you need them. If you don’t, just pass them on.
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