The first time I tried surfing, I was alone. While this may seem brave and fun, I would highly advise against this. I spent a full hour wrestling with the waves that just kept breaking on top of me. As they crashed down, my body would be twisted and thrown about. Often, I didn’t know which way was up. Sometimes, I would come up for air only to be thrashed again by the weight of the next wave. It was all so daunting and terrifying, I really wished I had someone there who knew the ropes and could help me should the waves win the battle.
Shortly after that experience, I remember coming across this from Psalm 69:1-4:
Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck. / I sink in the miry depths, where there is no foothold. / I have come into the deep waters; the floods engulf me. / I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. / My eyes fail, looking for my God.
I may have even cried out these words as I was gasping for air. I realized my stupidity and my pride very fast as I tried to figure out how to move forward. As I returned my rented board, I told myself, “There has to be another way.”
This feeling of being pummeled was almost exactly like my original months of fighting grief. So much of that time felt like I was being thrown about and gasping for air. I was fighting with grief because I didn’t know what else to do. I woke up daily facing the reality of having lost everything I loved. In the past, I would start paddling out again each day, only to be rocked by the force of the grief pushing me down.
After that initial surfing (or rather drowning) session, a dear friend, Justin, made a plan with me the following week to take me out. As the days approached, we looked for the best wind and swell direction for the best surf conditions. This was all new to me. I realized quickly I had been trying to surf in the worst possible conditions the previous week.
First, we stood on the beach and looked at the timing of the waves, and he showed me the breaks we were heading for. It seemed unfathomable that I would be able to get hundreds of yards/meters out beyond where I was the previous week. But as we started, the first thing he taught me was how to dive beneath the waves where there was the least resistance and power—down at the base of the wave. Within a few minutes, somewhat miraculously, we got past the last wave and popped up on the backline where the experienced surfers were sitting and waiting for their next wave.
It reminds me of when I began intentionally grieving; it was as if grief’s power had been diminished. Just by diving deep into the wave, I had found its weakest point. I was still exploring grief but seeing it in a completely different way. I was beginning to see the anatomy of grief—not just feeling its crushing blow.
Once Justin and I were in the backline (behind where the waves were forming), he spent the next two hours teaching me to see the waves forming on the horizon. He showed me how the waves broke differently in certain places, based on the topography of the terrain on the ocean floor. He showed me how to position myself so that I could maximize my chances of finally riding a wave. And, finally, he showed me how to seamlessly communicate my intentions to those around me.
After I chose to intentionally dive into my wave of grief, my attention peaked: How much of the experience of grief was different than I expected? I had never heard anyone speak about the experience of grieving in great detail. It seemed to be one of the mysteries of our human existence. I thought it was just something you tried to stand up against and usually failed. If I didn’t need to stand and be crushed by the waves of grief, what else was there to be learned?
Like sitting in the backline with Justin, I sat at the feet of anyone and everyone I could learn from. I have book shelves filled with books on grief, each one adding their own perspective.
I finally decided to write this piece when I was reading one of my favorite books on grief—so far—“Grieving With Hope” by Kathy Leonard and Samuel J. Hodges IV. There was a quote that was like a gut punch as I thought back to how I had initially thought of coping with my grief: “The best thing to do is to lean into [grief]. Just take it like waves of an ocean. Don’t try to run from it. Don’t try to numb it.”
How are you currently experiencing grief? What does the idea of diving into grief bring up for you? What conditions need to be right for you to take the plunge?