I couldn’t see the shore anymore. All I could hear was the lapping of water against this oddly painted gray wooden boat I found myself rowing in. Rowing. Me. I didn’t know I even knew how to do that well. Maybe I should have packed that mildewed life vest — wait, maybe there’s one here somewhere? Maybe I should have invested in that outboard motor.
I’ve always felt a sense of satisfaction — no, a downright bodily thrill — of bringing an engine to life like a push lawnmower, leaning forward with the plastic handle of the rope in my hand and swiftly pulling my arm back, engaging my hips in a quick coordinated swing of muscle memory.
“Yah, girl” is what I’d tell myself. It was nothing short of miraculous.
Bringing something to life. Especially when I didn’t fully understand all the mechanisms inside that made it run.
But here I was rowing. Where was the thrill? The engine that started with a seasoned arm?
Ah, yes. Old friend of mine. The unknown. Uncertainty. Dammit, you’re here again. I’ve managed you so well when we launched out. Light wind at our back. Carving our way through the cold waters. Getting splashed meant regrouping and finding a sense of adventure in the sweet discovery of inner mettle.
Now, six months in, old friend, you are still here. You have so overstayed your welcome. My inner mettle is tired and my palms are blistered and bleeding a bit. My muscles ache and the memory of the engine trilling with life seems so 2019.
Then my old friend says to me:
“Yah, girl.”
“What?!” I retort. “How can you say that? I have done nothing but sit here and row. Where is the shore, dammit?” My old friend is then frustratingly silent. A light wind just tickles in my ears.
Kind of caresses them, if I’m honest, which is even more frustrating.
“UHH!” I exclaim to the wind. More caressing. “Stop it! I have to row and you’re bothering me with … with … your gentleness.” More caressing.
I stop rowing for a moment. I catch my breath. I let the wind hold me for a moment. I let myself be. I breathe deeply. I feel. All. Of. It. I cry. Why doesn’t this world make sense anymore? I row.
I see another person. Wait, there are a whole lot of rowboats out here. A whole lot of efforting. A whole lot of individuals.
We’re all trying to get to shore. I receive words of encouragement. I shout back the same. It feels good to give it. “Hey, what do you need? I’ve got a life vest in here somewhere, but it’s gross. I do have some Band-Aids and duct tape and a random receipt.”
Well, OK, so what now? Exactly.
What now is the blistered palms, is being with the crappy-no-directionunknown stuff, is whittling away all of what we think we need to get down to what is necessary.
What is necessary is to be in the change as it is — messy, unknown, unclear, hurtful at times — by coming alongside it. Rowboat to rowboat. Not making it go away. Or ignoring it. Befriending it just as it is. Most importantly, it is discovering and building relationships, those boats who are in it, too, with you. Our shared humanity being our life vest.
So, if you’re rowing out there, I am too. Let’s go. Yah, girl.
Trinnie Houghton, a well-being and leadership coach, is president of Rippleffect Consulting LLC. She can be contacted at Trinnie@rippleffectconsulting.com.
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