I spent last weekend in Florida. I left on Thursday afternoon and returned to the frozen Midwest on Tuesday. Here is a list of my many adventures:

• Sit on the beach

• Work on my sketchbook

• Walk on the beach

• Listen to the ocean

• Listen to myself

• Work on my sketchbook on the beach

• Bury my feet in the sand

• Dance

• Sit by the pool

• Swim in the pool

• Watch the sun rise

• Swim in the ocean

• Take some photos

• Eat sushi

• Play cards

This was my to-do list, and I’m happy to say that I completed every item on the list.

As I listened to the wind and the waves, to my breath and my heartbeat, I received an impression, a pull, two small words whispered from the direction of the ocean, from the vibration of the universe over the course of those four days: Go in.

It felt like I had spent my weekend well doing just that. Listening to my body. Quieting my mind. Soothing my soul. Allowing a languid creativity to guide my motions like waves. I meditated on my connection to everything. I stood in the sand, and I stared at the water, and I marveled at its paradox. The waves constantly crash one after the other. The tide comes in, and the tide goes out. Always the same and always different. Always waves, often clouds and sunrise after sunrise morning after morning. And each wave is different from the last one in shape and sound and what it carries with it. There will never be a cloud like that one again. Each day at dawn, the sun rises with new colors, new clothes, different ships on the horizon, different birds in the shadows.

I heard from the ocean, the wind, waves, clouds, sand and sunrises. I heard, “go in,” and I did. And I am integrating these lessons now that I’ve returned to the ebbs and flows of my regularly scheduled life. Expanding into both/and. Because I went in. I had the space to go in. 

Being consistent doesn’t mean I never change. Being connected doesn’t mean I’m not myself. Being patient doesn’t mean I’m not active. Being silent doesn’t mean I have no voice.

I also went in the ocean itself. January in Florida is obviously more conducive to swimming than January in Wisconsin, and yet, even in Florida, it’s January still. The water was definitely cool, and at least the day we had on the beach was blessedly warm. The ocean said, “go in.” So I did. And as I made my way out past the breakers, I rose and fell with the waves. I tasted the salt on my lips. I felt fearless and free at the same time I felt isolated and scared. Ebb and flow.

The ocean is powerful. I noticed and appreciated my fear. And I jumped over wave after wave after wave. I felt the sand slip out from beneath my feet. I felt my parents watching me from the beach. And I was glad they were there in case I got sucked in over my head. I was out on my own, and still within reach. I was alone and connected to them and to God and to everything. And my fear broke with each breaking wave. I found fuel there. A reward. The lesson that everything is everything and nothing is everything and everything is nothing all at once. And even I, as small as I am, have a role to play. My role is meaningful, and it ebbs and it flows.

I am temporary and constant. Connected and my own.

I stood in the sand and the solid ground right out from underneath me dissolved into the flow. I pulled my feet from sunken sand and within moments, the waves replaced the grains. Smooth again. Packed flat. Ebb and flow. Here and gone. Everywhere and nowhere. Draw, erase. Shadow and light. This is balance. This is both. And it was such a gift.

Later, I walked on the beach and met a sculptor of sand. He said that the best part of making the sculptures is when the kids come and knock them down. They laugh and have such a great time. He said he was surprised that the reptile had lasted three days on this beach. On other beaches, they don’t last an hour. And he glowed in the sun. He loved the surprise of it. Making without attachment to posterity, knowing that it will be gone and thrilled by the surprise of how or when, the same and different every time. I keep thinking about the beauty of that. How the process of creating is like that, whether we work in sand or ink or ice or fabric or snow or water or paint or anything else. The process is the purpose. The experience is the reward. It will all go, sooner or later, we just don’t know how or when. We can hold on or let go. There is room for both.

The next wave will come and it’s never quite the same. Sure and uncertain. There’s grief and hope right there. Right here.