I remember holding my son, then two years old, while standing in the Atlantic Ocean. It sounds so much more impressive when I say it like that, but we were in the Bahamas and on the beautiful, serene beach. It was actually quite beautiful. My son was content paying in the sand, but as parents do, I needed to show him new things. I asked him if he wanted to go into the water and he looked at me like I was completely crazy.
“No no no papa.” He said.
Of course I couldn’t let it go down like that.
“Cmon pup.” I scooped him up and walked toward the water.
The volume and intensity of the screams that left this little boy’s body were the absolute equivalent to anything heard during a murder… or at least on a roller coaster, that’s restraints loosen just as the up-side-downy parts come.
I had to bring him back to the sand. I had successfully traumatized my kid. It was an extremely weird feeling. I sat with him until he bawled himself to sleep.
The next day, being the great father that I am, I attempted to take my beloved son back into the waters. It wasn’t a good look. He was just as terrified as the day before.
This day he didn’t scream himself into a nap though. We went to the sand and after about ten minutes he was ok to play amongst everyone else.
The third day, I just knew I would convince my child that he would be ok in the ocean.
We walked to the beach and from the sand, he could see everyone else in the water.
I held him tightly and assuringly and walked into the water ankle deep.
He didn’t scream. I felt accomplished!
Of course there is no way I was going to stop there.
I put him down in the water.
My son, this beautiful boy that has only known the protection of his family… ME specifically, stared at me with a look of the excruciating pain of betrayal in his eyes.
His eyes said “Sir, do you see how ridiculous this is? Look out there. There is no end, or other side. There is no way that this thing is safe. If it gets mad, then what?”
I could understand what he meant, and he was right, but I needed him to see that this water wasn’t going to hurt him. He was not screaming like a lunatic but he was definitely freaking out a little. He commanded me.
“UP!”
I picked him up as I laughed and explained that he could see that the water wouldn’t hurt him.
We stood together for a bit and he kept looking down. Almost as if he would be ok with dipping a toe in again.
I took the opportunity to put him down.
He was ok… he was ok.
Then he had enough.
“Up.”
On about our second to last day in the Bahamas, we walked out to the beach.
My boy looked out at the Atlantic and there was almost a glimmer of excitement.
We walked out into the water and I put my child down. He was knee deep today. The water was calm. He and I stood there for about five minutes. I held his little hand as he spoke some gibberish to me. I spoke back, reassuring him that he was ok and that he could learn how to swim soon. I don’t know that he knew what the hell I was talking about, but I do know that he was taking to the water. He looked out, like far out into the ocean and as he prepped his little sea legs, my little boy snatched his hand away from mine and said “by myself!’.
That would’ve been amazing, but he started to run into the ocean full (two year old) speed.
HOLY HELL!!!
I actually had to chase after him, even if it was only three sprint steps, that’s like six hundred two year-old steps.
I was now mortified. This fast ass little kid almost ran to the whole middle of the ocean…
Ok I know I am being wildly dramatic but, y’know, parents.
That woke me up!
The reason I told you this long ass story is because it’s how I associate the way I feel about pain, with my corresponding actions.
Without going into another long ass story, I once woke up under a car and I remember thinking, this isn’t good. I felt a certain amount of pain, but mostly what I was experiencing was extreme focus. I was VERY present. I needed to get up, safely. I needed to not have my head run over by a wheel. I needed to not have my torso crushed. I needed to not have my body dragged anymore. I was fully focused. Present. That moment was the most important one.
I don’t want to spoil this story for you, but I lived.
After I got up, I knew I was in shock, but everything was quiet. I was still focused. Dialed in to the present.
I recently dealt with some of the most trying weeks of my life. I got Covid-19 as did members of my family and this was quite literally the second time since 2018 that felt like I was having an awkward staring session with death. Uncomfortably close, in each other’s face. I was way more uncomfortable than death, I’m sure.
It’s kind of intense, when you think, “This is it.”
It’s very sobering. No longer intoxicated by complacency and contempt. It makes you feel alive and very aware of all the things you could or would or should be doing.
While healing from the car situation, I had extensive damage that kept me very present. Broken ribs, a freaking whole in my hand, my face leaking off like tha phantom of the opera…
It all had to be cared for daily. That pain was quite intense and I promise you, there is NOTHING more important in those moments than quelling that pain.
You become completely present.
Dealing with Covid I think I was as mentally stressed as I’d ever been. Things that I expected from, I guess, the universe, were not happening. Like, nothing. I’d never been affected like that.
PAIN.
mental, physical, emotional
I swear I was present every moment.
I thought about how my kid looked at the ocean, the mental anguish he felt. He was sure that this was the worst thing that he’d experienced in his 27 months of living. He might’ve been right.
The ocean is actually scary as shit when you think about it properly. That thing could get mad one day and be like “Thats it. I’m swallowing this whole thing (the land) up.” And that’s it. And the world is actually pretty scary. if you contemplate all of the things that have to work out perfectly for us to have an “ok” day… you realize there are a lot of things. We know that this life isn’t forever. EVERYONE knows, and whenver death comes, for most of us it will be too soon.
We wait for our tomorrows.
The lie of tomorrow.
The promise of tomorrow.
The excuse of tomorrow
It isn’t real.
The past has happened and you have proof of that, but it’s no longer real.
You ONLY HAVE NOW.
And you have no idea how many ‘Nows’ you have.
Pain focuses us. It makes things real. Sober.
Hafiz wrote
“Don't surrender your grief so quickly. Let it cut you more deep. Let it ferment and season you as few humans and even divine ingredients can. Something missing in my heart tonight has made my eyes so soft, my voice so tender, my need for God absolutely clear.”
Let it ferment and season you.
Don’t become addicted, but understand how it allows access to the present.
It makes you present.
The moment my son was free of the mental anguish, he was willing to run carefree into the ocean.
This is the balance. We have to let go of the pain so that we can live, but when it cuts deep we not only can honor the present, we can understand that we are completely reliant on something far greater than ourselves. When the pain is gone, how we hit God with a “BY MYSELF” as we snatch our hands away is insane.
Pain seasons us with humility.
That is the key to access the grace of God.
It’s a gift.
It is extremely difficult to access humility without understanding our fragility.
It’s difficult to understand the plight of others without having endured our own trials.
It is a gift.
Pain: The Present.