Dear Friends,
One of my family’s most beloved places on earth is the tidal marsh behind my parents’ house. The light, the water, the birds, the grasses are a continual source of beauty and awe. Through the middle of it, a path of stones leads out to the dock from which we kayak and paddleboard, watch the osprey, and commune with the memory of our Pop at sunset.
The dock is actually in two sections; one is stationary, the other floats. Every spring, on a full-moon high tide, we wade through the marsh pushing the floating dock from the shoreline out to the end of the fixed dock. Every fall, on another high tide, we get it back to the land where it sits through the winter. Pop used to lead this ritual; sometimes he and mom would even do it themselves. Now, my brother Ray directs the effort. I try to always show up because he is an amazing inventor who is always tinkering with the easiest way to do this, and besides, it’s always a funny time. There’s a lot of family banter. I generally get wetter than everyone else. It has something to do with my not having my hearing aids in or my glasses on and never remembering where the mosquito trench starts …
So last Saturday night was the date we’d planned to move the dock for the warmer months. All day long, one of my brothers-in-law kept saying, “There isn’t going to be enough water. The tide’s not going to be high enough.” The rest of us disagreed, cited the official tide chart, and said, “It’ll be fine.” But when 6 p.m. came, even though it was high tide, most of the dock was still on dry ground. Undaunted, or at least stubborn, five of us gave it a serious go, two or three inches at a time. Ray would leverage the dock up with a 2x10 and the rest of us would push. After a lot of grunting and straining, the dock was fully in the water. But there was nowhere to go with it. There most definitely wasn’t enough water to get it up over the grasses and stones out to the creek. In the end, we had to reluctantly admit the high-tide prediction had been wrong, and we couldn’t make it happen. Jeff had been right.
Ray, Buddy, and I reconvened the next evening at dusk. The light was spectacular, the pink moon almost full, and the tide just shy of a full foot higher. The water was incredibly cold, but the dock was a breeze to push. In less than 25 minutes, we had it attached to the fixed dock and were wading back towards the house, awash in the gorgeous sunset. As we walked, I smiled. How many times do we struggle with this very wisdom?
When do we need to reach deep within and give a mighty push forward, and when do we need to allow more grace or help or time to rise? When is patience a virtue, and when is it a smokescreen for comfort, privilege, fear, or separation?
Sometimes Way Opens, the water rises, and we feel almost carried along by grace. In those times we feel sure that all is well with our decisions and our waiting. There are also times when the only thing to do is to wait. That dock was going nowhere helpful on Saturday night. Yet other times, what we are called to do is to wade into the cold water, be uncomfortable, stretch the limits of what we think we can collectively do, and trust that there is enough Light or Love around us to see us through the hard work. It can be especially hard in new situations, when we don’t know how to do what seems needed. Waiting doesn’t always make it clearer or easier. In those times, we just have to start.
Sending you love from the mosquito trench,
Gretchen