Just This

When there are no words.

On time, and under a low ceiling of mist and drizzle, the plane lifted off the tarmac into a thick blanket of clouds. I resigned myself to the fact that there would be no view of the dazzling turquoise waters I loved on this trip, no ritual playing of Macy Gray’s Sail while the sea shimmered below. But as we rose higher, the grayness began breaking apart and by the time we reached the Everglades, I could see that dramatic line, the sudden shift of green where massive Miami ended, and the river of grass began.

We flew over dark patches of scrub and palm and shining glimpses of water. Here and there, small groupings of houses appeared out of nowhere surrounded by nothing. But soon that disappeared too, and all I could see was that solemn greenness dotted with sinkholes and still water, and then a world of unimaginable beauty as the setting sun began slicing through the still-moody clouds and the land gave way to the sea.

I was returning from a trip to Manhattan, a whirlwind few days visiting friends, meeting new ones, connecting with sacred spaces and people. It was all there: subways and rumbling sidewalks, loud horns and speeding bicycles, my body in spaces both unfamiliar and full of childhood memories - so much this and now this coming at me from all sides all the time.

Before I left, I had been listening to a Zen talk where the teacher suggested checking in with yourself throughout the day by asking, how are you feeling?

I asked this when I found myself not knowing where to exit the subway or not sure I was walking east or west on a busy street or trying to find that little Italian place I saw before. It was helpful, this pause. Gave me time to check in. To breathe. To pull out my phone or simply allow myself to be lost for a moment or two until I found my way again.

The teacher suggested doing this six times a day. And he emphasized the importance of noticing not only negative feelings, but good, positive ones, too.

From my window seat, I watched the Everglades give up its fragile hold on the land. As sunset backlit the clouds, an entire world began taking shape before me. It was both amazing and disorienting. I asked myself, how are you feeling?

I made the mistake of trying to answer that question. The truth is, there were no words for it. That didn’t stop me. I tried hard. And then harder. But the harder I tried, the less I got. Finally, I gave up and surrendered to what was before me and then it was simply there. THIS.

Dramatic sunset over the flat calm Atlantic

When I landed, I knew I had to write about it. At first, I didn’t. I wasn’t sure I could. All I knew was that I flew right out of that plane and into the moment. I was what I was looking at: there and not there. How do write about that?

I went searching for a quote that I kept taped to my computer back when working on my first book. At the time, I was writing a memoir and going over very difficult ground, trying to write about things I had trouble speaking about, much less writing.

There is a spiritual aspect to writing when you are navigating deep and tender truths, and this piece of advice gave me a path to find my way into language then. It did now, too.

Sometimes writing about beauty is as tough as writing about sorrow.

This, from Franz Kafka:

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice. It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

At any moment. Wait for it.