Unmoored, but Unstuck, Part 2
One moored sailboat. Charley Young Beach, Kihei Maui, last week.
FEBRUARY 4, 2021 — My friend Joe sent me an email after my last post.
“Unmoored, unstuck… do they not connote the same visual? Am I missing something?”
He called me out on my conflicting imagery, and I’ve been musing about this.
After Bill died, unmoored was the best word I could find to describe how I felt. Drifting and directionless.
The smallest of mundane tasks depleted my energy in that first year of raw grief, but so did those creative pursuits that used to give me energy, such as performing music, or long conversations with like-minded folks. It was dizzying to be at sea so much of the time, with my internal compass spinning.
Figuring out how much physical energy and brainpower I had at my disposal on a daily basis became my full-time job. If I pushed myself, my body rebelled with anxiety. I would forget sometimes, feel like I should be doing more purposeful work, get belayed by exhaustion, and then stop or change paths.
Unmoored and stuck. How’s that for a paradox?
I have berated myself for being scattered and silly and boring in those times. Even irresponsible, and that is just plain unhelpful selftalk.
I don’t judge others like that. Why do I do that to myself?
The perspective of time helps, for sure. I’m much better than I was. And sometimes I’m right back there in a time warp.
Walking, hiking helps. It’s the one thing for which I always have time and energy. Maybe that’s because I walk a little or a lot, whatever I feel I need at that moment. Nothing outside myself is giving me the parameters. And it’s fairly easy for me to get into a groove, a flow.
My own pace of life had been hidden beneath the needs of my dying husband, and before that, my children, students, and music jobs. That is not a complaint, by the way. I loved those days! They were full of energy, purpose, and love.
When I walk now, I start out slow and unsteady but know that I will find my stride. The trail has almost always been where I feel the most at home. It has everything I need.
Writing helps too, but I am less disciplined about writing because writing is harder. Sometimes it takes a lot of energy, and sometimes, when I find the flow, it’s easy. Finding the flow, that’s the key. But unlike walking, the flow with writing is not a guarantee. At least not for me.
Like in Linda Waterfall’s song “Coconut Milk,” it comes when it comes.
The accompanying photo in my last post of the two sailboats anchored offshore, the ones that were always there, every morning, every evening, reminded me of what the word moored meant to me. My old life, my house, my teaching, my creative pursuits, my family. I was happy and anchored then.
Not a perfect analogy, of course. Anchored boats don’t go anywhere. But like Dr. Bailey, one of my favorite English professors said, “if you analyze a metaphor too much, it will fall apart.”
So I’ll stop.
Not long after I posted that last piece, I walked along that beach again. It was like the Universe heard me. All of a sudden, there was only one sailboat anchored there.
And in my imagination, the other one is off, led by the wind and waves, full of energy, purpose and love, off exploring new worlds. Unmoored and unstuck.