2/4/2022

I feel adrift.
Wiped out and carried away to a place I don’t know.

But I do know it, don’t I?
I was just here, lost at sea.
I had only just regained my footing on land when the second wave broke over me and the tide ripped me back out.
Yes, I’ve been here before.
And with that realization comes all the dread familiarity can bring.

I tread water, trying in vain to spot land again.
I don’t care, not really.
I know that these waters, curse them, won’t kill me.
I know I’ll come through them in time.

In time is soon enough.

Yes, I’ve been here before.
But as I lie back, numb, not caring how far I drift, I have a knowing that I’m further from shore than I was in my previous drifting.
I remember how far I had to swim to find shore last time.
And I have no ability or desire to make that effort again.
And something tells me: that same effort won’t work again this time anyway.

Well, since the tide is determined to carry me wherever it will, I may as well let it.

I feel lost.
But I dare to believe I am not.
I feel helpless.
And I dare to believe I always have been, unaware.
I feel part of me has been irretrievably lost.
And I dare to embrace the remaking,
trusting that the one who guides all tides will bring me into safe harbor one day, washed and made new.

So I drift.