In the shallows

Something’s been niggling me.

There are times when it all feels ridiculous, writing about sea swims and beach cafes, about how to follow the things we love. There are times when I wonder if I’m just stuck in the shallows, like a sea swim gone wrong.

While the world is falling apart somewhat, is it selfish and stupid to be hunting down glimpses of beauty and light?

How is that going to help?

Should I simply give up?

There are times when it’s tempting.

Even as I chide myself though, I know something else. I know there is a deeper layer to all this. Like a sea ledge that suddenly drops into the deep, I know these apparent shallows have more to them.

That, in refusing to give up on the things we love, which bring us joy and matter deeply to our hearts, in refusing to give up on beauty, we are in some way resisting the darkness.

Another thing I know is that often, it’s in those seemingly superficial moments of beauty and joy, in those shallows, that the healing comes. When damage is deep, we sometimes need the softness of low tide for a while, moving on with a slow sloshing wade and a gentle glide rather than a noisy splash.

I’m remembering our summer in Northumberland. How I limped there, both physically and emotionally. How I made it to the water’s edge on Holy Island.

There, I changed quickly in the chill, my feet cold on the damp sand. It was decision rather than desire that took me to the water that day and I could have turned back in a second. I didn’t though. I had waited for this. Maybe I was looking for too much, but it felt significant that my first post-injury sea swim was in a place of Pilgrimage.

Of course, it was not perfect. My just-about-healed broken elbow ached. My hip was a little stiff and angsty, yet I pushed myself out to the mid-water, deep enough to swim, shallow enough to be safe. And that’s when I realised.

I needed these soft shallows to help me heal.

Sometimes, we need a gentle easing in. A starting point. Swimming tentatively in small gentle waves, the quiet soft words of hope.

Of course, there will be times when depth is what’s needed.

But not yet. Not straight away.

Go gently. Start small.

Look at the rippled threads of light! Look how beautiful!

Sometimes, it is simpler than we think.

Sandham Bay - Holy Island

So maybe we begin by following the things that call to us, finding beauty and allowing ourselves to breathe it in. Yes, bigger actions are needed. But starting with our own attitude, our own heart, can make a difference… one that might ripple out into the world.

When we’re feeling lost and left behind, most of our energy is sucked away by trying to fill the gap. It quickly becomes a breeding ground for unhelpful comparisons, pushing us to be someone we’re not.

Before long, things feel subtly darker.

Before long, our tiny corner of the world where we had only wanted goodness, becomes tainted. A tiny bit of resentment tries to creep in, born of petty jealousies, making it harder and less natural for us to follow Jesus’ command to love our neighbour.

I’m oversimplifying, but surely that’s how it works on a wider scale too? That lack of love spreads into a shortage of community-mindedness, and care for others. We find ourselves scrabbling to keep the best for ourselves.

Because we are so scared of scarcity.

What’s the alternative? The so-called shallows perhaps. Allowing ourselves to be caught up in the wonder of doing things we love, in whatever way. Because, when we follow the things that call deeply to our souls and do them as the person we are, rather than the one we’re not, we often find this joy is contagious. We shake off the spirit of competitiveness that can curl so tightly around our hearts.

With no need to prove anything, we free ourselves.

For the longest time, I felt the constant burden of should. I should be more useful. I should be more helpful. But it turns out it is not selfish to spend time on beauty and developing the parts of your life that you love. Quite the opposite.

Because, when I finally allowed myself time for those things that called to my soul, it was like releasing a pressure valve. My heart grew softer, the desire to share grew stronger, more genuine.

Gradually, we see this grow into something bigger. It becomes an act of community. We stretch and grow. We find ourselves wanting that goodness for others too. The thing we love becomes a gift, a positive force in the world.

This whole thing has been a tender thread running through the book I’ve been writing over the past few years too. It’s a book about beach cafes, but really, it’s about what I’ve learnt of myself in places of beauty. The slow transformation of ideas. The understanding that we need to find our way to the things we love in order to find peace with ourselves and to share it with others.

I’d been mulling all of this over in a vague meandering way for some time when I came to pick up Henri Nouwen’s slim volume, Peaceworks. Although I knew he was a contemplative, I expected a book on peace-making to be packed with grand ideas for noisy actions. I felt a little nervous opening it, fearing failure before I even began.

What I found though, was something quite different. Gentler.

Something that affirmed my own clumsy thoughts, expressing them more deeply and eloquently than I ever could.

Yes, there are suggestions for worthy deeds, but much of the book is given to our own attitude, to being so closely aligned with God’s desire for peace that our daily lives touch those of others, spreading goodness throughout our communities, building relationships in difficult places. Building peace from the ground upwards. Bringing freedom. Healing.

I am just learning. But this is how I want to be. Free from the creeping weeds that choke.

We do not jump straight in with world-changing peace initiatives. We begin in the shallows, working on ourselves.

We hope it will create gentle ripples.

We do the things we love and, in so doing, we find ways of loving others better.

And that,

is world changing.