Ochre sea star at low tide. Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach, Oregon. March 2020. photo by anne richardson
Love: The Core Message
Ah, this post. It feels like it has gone through twenty iterations. It started at the coast. Now I am home and still wandering through my words, culling, rephrasing, discerning. I want to share that Mother Ocean offered heart after heart on my journey to Cannon Beach, Oregon. She is sending you love. It was as if she said, “Daughter, that needs to be the core message.” And so, perhaps previous drafts were for me and not you. To navigate my own response to Covid-19 before returning to my center. Balanced. What remains goes out from my heart to yours. As always, take what you need and leave the rest. And if you read (or skip) to the end, I am offering a free service, a gift, my way of being of service during this time.
Hope Amid Devastation
When my children were young, we would visit tide pools on the Oregon coast. Ochre and purple sea stars were readily visible along with sea anemones and other marine life that gather along the coastline. It was a mystery why the sea stars began wasting away in massive numbers beginning in 2013 along the Pacific West Coast from Alaska to the Baja Peninsula. The culprit, sea star wasting disease (SSWD,) a virus, was not following its usual, less lethal patterns. Scientists pooled their efforts to research why this important species in the intertidal community was dying off. Volunteers joined the effort, carefully tracking numbers. Precautions were instituted to include “not touching sea stars” as that could spread the virus from one sea star to another. (Does that sound familiar?)
Though scientists are still puzzled by what instigated the initial outbreak and sea stars are not free from SSWD, I felt relief as I read about a resurgence in the sea star population. The mortality rate has dropped from 90% in the first years to as low as 6% being recorded in some locations in recent surveys. Subsequent sea stars generations seem to have developed a resilience to SSWD. Resilience. A word for me that offers hope. (To read an article about the sea stars and SSWD: Starfish battered by wasting disease but recovering.)
Sea anemones at low tide. Cannon Beach, Oregon. March 2020. photo by anne richardson
Western Gulls are in integral part of the Oregon Coast marine community. Cannon Beach, Oregon. March 2020. photo by anne richardson
Resilient Species
Why open with what could be a depressing story about a decimating virus? (Thanks anne, just what we need right now!) Well, it seemed to be handed to me as I took one of my lengthy meanders along Cannon Beach’s coastline during my stay. An employee by the tide pools was sharing with another visitor about the sea stars and mentioned “virus.” My ears perked up and I leaned in (but not too close) to listen. I had heard about SSWD years ago when it first made the headlines, but it had long ago faded from memory. With Covid-19 in the forefront of my thoughts these days, I wondered what correlation there might be, bigger picture-wise, between the sea stars and our current human experience. As I read and re-read the referenced article, though we are not sea stars and there is NO evidence we will have the high mortality rate of sea stars, I noticed some similarities:
At first there were more questions than answers.
Cooperation was the touchstone for assessing and working towards solutions.
Nature works to bring cycles back into balance alongside human interventions,
And I saw hope, for sea stars seem to be a resilient species. We too are resilient.
Mother Ocean was calm, offering lullabies of love. Haystack Rock at sunset. March 2020. photo by anne richardson.
Ordinary Times
Let me back up to why I was at the coast. I had planned a three night stay several weeks ago to my favorite place to retreat and write. It would be the end of winter. Before all the spring and summer folk gathered and my time there would be over until late next autumn, except for occasional day trips. Time to connect with Mother Ocean. To finalize a couple of pieces. Focus. Submit.
Finding Balance Amid Change, Loss, and Grief
And then, as you know, the ordinary of life began to change day-by-day. Cancellations. Closings. Changes to vocabulary: “Social distancing.” “Pandemic.” A voluntary “stay-in-place.” Do I make the drive or not? The beach is wide, so the 6’ spacing should be easy. I could bring my own food. Alone at home or alone in at the inn? I chose to go. To go where I feel a deep connection to a source of guidance: Mother Ocean. To gather strength for the time ahead.
The ocean was calm and gentle, a Mother offering a lullaby in turbulent times. The wind, mild. My first night, cloudless. Venus set the stage followed by stars vying for attention as blue skies turned whisper pink turned color of salmon flesh startling to tangerine on the horizon before turning black. Small groups lit fires on the beach distancing themselves from gatherings to gather on sand, to see stars granulate like sand gathering in the sky. Settled on the beach for a moment we could all pretend nothing had changed. Except the sea stars clinging to Haystack Rock. They still have their own virus to contend with. But we didn’t know that. In that present moment, it was the lulling ocean, more emerging stars, and firelight. It was enough.
What is the balance between being informed and obsessed? I consider myself grounded and one who holds things loosely, staying in the present moment for the most part. But, I am human and will admit to you I have been prone to “catching up on the latest virus news” more than I find healthy. And I miss touch. I am grieving the loss of daily physical proximity with people…and I’m an introvert. Does this sound familiar?
I am navigating what balance looks like for me, appropriate with the official turn to spring. I discovered that when “over checking” the news I begin feeling powerless. Helpless. And that is not true. There are many things I can do. Healthy ways I can cope. Taking time at the coast, while minding precautions, was one of them. It helped me gain perspective, balance, and clarity to move forward now I am home. It offered time to listen to my mentors: Grief and Mother Ocean.
One of the many hearts offered on my walks.
Scattered shells, rocks, pebbles remain as the tide ebbs out. Treasures. Cannon Beach, Oregon. March 2020. photo by anne richardson
Swirl sand heart. Cannon Beach, Oregon, March 2020. photo by anne richardson
Another heart.
Morning “coffee klatch” of gulls. Cannon Beach, Oregon. March 2020. photo by anne richardson
Deep Listening to Mentors
During the long strolls on the beach I listened. I knew I would hear wisdom. And I did. Birds. Rhythm of tide. Small debris nestled in wet sand. Hearts. And those sea stars. Here is what I was taught:
*An eagle flew above Haystack Rock toward land. Magnificent. Gliding on a thermal, wings spread wide as if to say “You can ride this invisible wave. Trust it will take you where you need to land.”
*A gull and two crows were convened around a small object. The gull is in possession, protective, prying without success to open the object. Finally giving up, it yields to the larger crow who takes what looks like a rock in its beak, flies up, and lands a few yards away, the small crow following. Pry, pry, pry with beak pulling, twisting. Minutes pass. The large crow gives up. The small crow tries: pry, pry, pry. Standing even, on this reclaimed treasure. Nothing. They fly on to another venture. I wander over to see what was left. A mussel shut tight. Super glued. A snack not eaten this day by gull. By crows. The gull, the crows…they didn’t fight. They each took a turn. And ultimately it wasn’t about what was eaten, but what was left. There was more than enough on the beach. Scarcity is an illusion we create.
*Mother Ocean offered hearts. Where water meets sand—a swirl of heart. Broken shell hearts. Song wave hearts. “I love you” hearts. Lovers’-initials-carved-in-sand heart’s Every walk on the beach—hearts.
*Western Gulls gather in community. The gull that gave up on the mussel, it offered a plaintive cry and another gull came. Gave it gull support (beaks touching, an affirming caw back.) And then there were the gulls feasting on takeout…a crab. Taking turns. A leg here. Belly meat there. I’m sure it wasn’t all orderly. But still, community. Gulls bathing together. Nesting. Swooping. Flowing with the rhythm of shift from winter to spring. I admit to being envious on these calm days when they are not flying into gale force winds (I’ve witnessed those days on previous visits.) Their energy seemed light and cheeky. A reprieve from the whirl of energy around “the virus.”
*Small bits of shells, rocks and pebbles left scattered in the wet sand as the ocean journeyed out. Those broken shells in new form. Catching the sun’s glimmer. Tiny enough to pinch between a toddler’s curious fingers. Rocks becoming pebbles becoming sand. Wet sand etching a mosaic along the shore color of topaz, midnight sky, ripe wheat, and moonstone glisten into a continuous flow. Grief reminded me we too are being etched by this virus into a something new.
*Tides, even when they are going out, surprise by racing in. And when they are coming in, will recede suddenly as if having a change of mind. The ebb and flow of tides are not one long receding out and journey in but a dance along the shore leaving a roller coaster shape between wet and drying sand. This journey with “the virus” I’ve read, will look more like a roller coaster. The tides, remind me to not be complacent, for I never know when an ebbing tide will suddenly wash over my feet, ankles, shins. Tides, the ocean—keeps me on my toes, and vigilance will be needed in the days ahead.
In the Midst of Loss, Love Will Sustain
In the sea stars’ story I see resilience and hope after devastation and loss. I made sure to go out at low tide so I could spot them as best I could with my camera. Not the best photos, but I saw a few braced against Haystack Rock, their home. Made me smile. They are slowly making a comeback. Yes, the virus is still a threat, but as a species, sea stars are coping in sea star fashion. I am hopeful that the next generation of youngsters visiting intercostal tide pools along the west coast will see a plethora of sea stars in the future.
And back to love, what Mother Ocean said was to be the core message. All those hearts on the beach, swirled in sand, broken bits of shell, even those carved in wet sand with initials of devoted lovers. This virus journey we are on will be full of loss. Full of grieving. So yes to resilience. Yes to hope. And at our core, it will be love that sustains us through it all.
For Your Reflection
What are you doing for self-care in the midst of all the change? Is there something you used to do that is no longer available (like going to the gym?) If so, have you found a substitute?
What are your coping methods? Are they working in this situation or do they need to be reassessed? Try not to judge anything. Just be curious. For example if you find yourself watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island 8 hours a day, simply ask yourself, “How is this helping me?” “Is it soothing?” “Does it make me laugh?” “Do I find myself wishing I was on a deserted island right now?” “And if so, why?”
What are you most afraid of losing during the Covid-19 pandemic? What does that represent? Can you write a story around it?
Where do you turn for comfort? If you have a Higher Power, what would you like to ask? What does it look like to feel comfort from your Higher Power or other sources of comfort?
What offers you hope? How have you been resilient in the past?
An Offering, A Gift
Spiritual Direction/Companionship
In my last blog I shared about what spiritual direction/companionship looks like when someone meets with me. Usually I meet with my “directees” in person and a relationship is established over time. However, I also know from working as a chaplain, that a meaningful, supportive conversation can occur in one “visit.” This happened in my work as a hospice chaplain and during my training in the hospital. Often those were times when folks were challenged by circumstances that upended their lives.
This is a challenging time for many. Having someone with my training and experience, who can listen into your questions, your story, your beliefs without offering a pat answer may be helpful. Doing this work is my passion and I feel called to be of service as our community, our world, faces this challenge, or dare I say, invitation (a word I often extend in conversations.)
My offer, my gift to you: though we can’t meet in person, I am available via Zoom, FaceTime or phone for a free session. I’ll hold our conversation in confidence, as I would any session. I am here to support you. I hope, if you feel the need, you’ll reach out. Please connect.
To read more about my philosophy go to my web page: Spiritual Direction or here is what I wrote last month in my blog: Sitting with another one-on-one and allowing their story to unfold. Listening to the threads and weaving them into a tapestry that, if it doesn’t seem to fit, the client is free to unweave them. Speaking stories back. Offering not answers, simply noticings. This is what I provide. Something rarely given in our “fix it” world. With my extensive training and experience as a chaplain and spiritual director and work in hospice, I often come alongside with those experiencing loss of loved ones. And I have clients that are in the midst of life altering illness, life transitions, or reflecting back on the past and wanting to make sense of “what was then” to make sense of what is happening now. If this kind of support appeals to you, please contact me. Or if you know of someone else who might be interested, please forward this post
Please stay in touch. I wish you and those you care for and about peace and wellness.
And as always, gratefully,
anne
