The sand in the surf of the ocean can never go back to where it was before it met the wave. But that doesn't mean it's not still sand in the surf of the ocean. If there's one thing I remind myself of to help get through things, it's that life is a series of waves. Some waves are going to be horrible - they may nearly drown me - and other waves are going to be smaller, and deceptively devastating. And others still may barely have an impact, and hell, maybe I'll even enjoy some. For me, it's the visual of it all being waves that helps me get through. Just like a wave, I know this feeling will pass. And that's helpful when it's painful because I have told myself for years that I can endure just about anything if I know it won't last forever. It's also helpful when it's a joyful wave because it makes me cherish each moment of it as a gift. In both the good ways and bad, I will most assuredly be different after each wave passes. And, call it o
-- I remember spinning a top when I was a kid. I would watch it, in awe of its smooth, silent, and almost flawless twirling. When I close my eyes, I can visualize it - how it almost appeared to my child mind to be entirely motionless. When it's balanced like that, even though it's spinning, it's silent and still. And every part of itself is designed for this very behavior. A beautiful, flawless spin like this is its entire purpose. I can remember a time when, with my eyes focused intently on my spinning top, I witnessed the fraction of a second in which it lost balance. I didn't see why. Maybe it was a simple grain of sand on the floor. But the top, it waivered. And that grain of sand had ended things. It was only a fraction of a second - a moment of contact between the sand and the top. But I can remember how it flew wildly and erratically in all directions. And now our top is knocking and hitting and spinning. It will likely stop any secon