Waves

I am interested in people who make waves.

I love standing on the edge of the pebbled local beach near my house and, on a calm day, hearing the gentle shaking of the pebbles as the tide gently moves in or out, a thin line of foam marking the border between beach and sea, the occasional shell washing in along with lines of kelp or the salad of bright green seaweed. For me, those peaceful moments at the water's edge are like the murmur of friends, quietly doing the everyday work of their lives, participating in the rhythms that drive us all: tucking a child into bed, picking up the mail, pulling weeds, running errands, getting dinner on the table, going to work, eating lunch at a desk to be more efficient, laughing with colleagues, puzzling through small problems, rolling up our sleeves to do the dishes.

When I hear the pebbles chattering under the small waves, I know that all is right with the world in that moment, that the waves and the pebbles are doing what they ought to. I can be fooled into believing that the work isn't important, that the moment is insignificant, but that would leave out some bigger truth. The truth is that it would be impossible to stop those little ripples, to contain the sea, to quiet the pebbles. Whether I am healthy or ill, whether I am busy or quiet, whether I am paying attention or not, the waves keep coming, the pebbles keep rolling just under the water, and the moon keeps pulling the sea in, and out, in, and out, over and over again.

There is another beach nearby with a small sea wall, and when the wind and the tide are just right, the waves do not ripple, they crash and roar and create watery fireworks that explode above. I have wandered countless times on the beach below, on calmer days, picnicking and searching for seashells, but on a day when the moon's pull is particularly strong and the weather is forceful, the beach disappears and the waves are forceful and thunderous, magnificent and powerful.

Lately it seems that there are more big waves than usual, or perhaps I am just noticing them more, but I am alternately awed by their spectacular display and dismayed at how small and insignificant I am next to them. No murmuring or whispering pebbles, these are waves that shout, waves that demand, waves that push. Viewed from a safe distance, they are awe inspiring, but up close, they are terrifying and dangerous and can easily knock a woman from her feet, or wash away a road. I hear the waves shouting, "Me too," and "Never again" and "It's my turn" and "You will listen to me NOW!"

I am the waves. Maybe you are, too. I am quiet and gentle and I can ease a child's soul with a gentle touch and a bedtime story and I can nourish my friends with the food I place on my table and I can please those around me by my agreeable murmurings and accommodations. I am those ripples, and I have spent a lifetime practicing the work of moving in and out with the tides. But it seems that the winds are shifting, too, and I'm finding the delight of letting my hair whip in the wind and the salty spray hit my face as I let the unfettered waves roar and rise and scatter into the air, forcefully, with strength, with pride, with unabashed power. I'm those waves, too.

I am fifty old. I have spent a lifetime trying to be enough, but not too much; to please those around me with my murmurs and constancy, making noise but not making a racket, while somehow trying to demonstrate (all at the same time) that I had a voice worth hearing, too. I have tried not to draw too much attention to the fact that sometimes my work washes up not only seashells, but also beer cans and candy wrappers and broken bits, and I have focused on the good. I am proud of this work: it is important work. And yet? I'm a bit tired of holding back, of forgetting that I was born not only to smooth the pebbles to a luster, but also to smash against the sea wall, to create a glorious show of force and power by tossing spray effortlessly into the air, but creating my own beautiful thunder.

I like people who make waves, especially those who know when it is time to ripple, and when it is time to roar.

This blog is a bit of a ripple and a bit of a roar, exploring the questions of the world around me as I see them, and navigating the weather and the pebbles and the sea wall and the beach. 2018 is an interesting time for women, as we walk a precarious line along the shore, surprising the world that our whispers have turned to commands, that our soothing touch is also capable of surprising strength, and that we get to use that strength as we see fit, and not just as others command it.

I write because, well, because I have to. I have something I want to say, and I want to share it with you. I want to talk about what it means to be a feminist, about where to look for joy, about the wonder of speaking up, about being middle aged, about finding power and about speaking to power, about motherhood, about daughters, about books, about optimism, about health, about girlfriends, about love. I want to be the water, because water is life, and to soothe and refresh, but also to shape and change and insist. I want to make waves. Will you join me?