Ocean air clears the heart

We can drop back in — even for a moment — to parts of a life we once lived, but no more, and see beauty in the changes. (In those pieces or in ourselves? Yes.)

Oh. Hello there. What a weekend.

I felt overjoyed to get a big dose of heart-clearing ocean air and caring familiar faces in Yachats.

It's been almost a year since I moved away.

While I've been back plenty of times since, this visit stands out in its emotional complexity and intensity.

We can drop back in — even for a moment — to parts of a life we once lived, but no more, and see beauty in the changes. (In those pieces or in ourselves? Yes.)

And for me, on this trip, there was a lot.

The thrill of feeling seen. Remembered. Cared for.

While I was out walking, several dozen people — this is not hyperbole — stopped me to say how much they missed me.

My phone pinged with messages from people who were too far away to do the same in person, but wanted to share how happy they were to see me walking around town again.

My supply of hugs is overflowing.

What a special thing.

More feelings.

Sadness. Hurt. Heartbreak.

Anger and schadenfreude, too, if I'm being honest. No need to sling mud. But one can acknowledge when the still water under a dark strange sky has mud in it.

Why does it feel this hard to let go of paths that could have been, but won't be?

Those "in another life..." paths.

Why is it that when life unfolds as it does, it can feel increasingly hard to nod — kindly, gently, lovingly — at the forks in the road not taken, and keep going?

I'm coming to believe it's a good sign.

That it can be a testament to the magnificence of the lives we're building that even the paths not meant for us could have been exquisitely beautiful in their own right.

That similar to how a rising tide lifts all boats, a well-loved, well-tended garden grows many flowers.

But they have their own seasons to bloom.

And then fall away.

Leonard Nimoy shared a few poetic words before he passed that read, "A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory." This weekend reminded me of that.

And I think of the stunning ways that joy and sorrow dance together.

Sometimes slow. Sometimes fast.

But in tandem nevertheless.

Because there is joy here.

Goodness, is there joy.

In the richness of everything and everyone I've experienced in the near-year since I left.

In who I've been becoming and how my life is unfolding.

Yesterday I got to support Ophi and Tali again with the spring quarterly session of their year-long coaching program.

This writer doesn't have all the words to describe how much life and lightness there's been in this year's work.

I've been quiet on here the last few months as I've leaned into the people and projects that are meant for me in this season.

How underrated taking space is.

And how challenging to take it — to make space for space.

Why is it that the space we trade away can feel too valuable to surrender, but when we do it, we may realize it pales in comparison to what was waiting for us?

I feel incredibly grateful for all of you.