SEARCHING FOR LOST PASSION

By Judy Martin, MFT

When did it first happen that I look at the ocean and all I see is water? Once I was stirred and amazed by its powerful crescendos. Whatever happened to the child in me—the one who burned with wonder and curiosity?

Life’s splintering axe blows have left me vigilant, waiting for the next awful thing to happen. I can’t say which blow leveled me. Was it the terror I felt each time my teenaged daughter did something rebelliously dangerous? The failed attempts to make my lukewarm marriage hot and juicy? Or my impotent rage and horror that children are slaughtering each other in our schools? All of these, none of these?

I want to roar like a caged lion! My grief is excruciating—my threadbare passion a mere memory of who I used to be.

I look in the mirror and see wrinkles on a face that used to smile more. I’m saddened by the severe frown etched deeply into my forehead. Where are the eyes that used to reflect, with soft radiance, an unexpectedly delightful moment?

I’m afraid to be hurt by life again, a mouse going nowhere spinning endlessly on its wheel.

I used to awaken in the mornings, with my muscles full of oxygen and strength. Like a child waiting for the recess bell, I couldn’t wait to run freely into the playground of life.

Today, deeply aware of my despair, I retreat to a cottage by the beach, overlooking the ocean. I’m proud of myself. Choosing to hunt for renewal feels like a merciful act on my own behalf.

While I cook, I gaze upon the vast body of water before me, and wait for something to stir. I feed myself a continuous diet of beautiful music, good food, and unscheduled time. I wait. I breathe deeply. And I pray for passion to set me ablaze.

I sit down to write, but nothing comes. After more wordless moments, I realize that rather than write about something I’ve already lived, I want to eat life blindfolded. A thrill of excitement pumps through my heart. And I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. It’s the very feeling I’ve been mourning the loss of.

I look back at the ocean again, but this time I feel the thrill of watching a wave birth itself. Blood rushing, antsy, I’m chomping at the bit to "get up close and personal" with the sea. Grabbing a jacket, I walk the twenty yards between my cottage and the beach.

My life drives like a stick shift car, bucking and stalling before reaching water’s edge. My passion tank now on empty, I pine the bathing suit weather I didn’t appreciate two days ago and chastise myself for focusing on the past.

My mired moment passes quickly. Warmed from walking briskly, my muscles relax their steeling grip against the cold. With my jacket off and my arms swinging freely, I feel energized. I’m at ease and aware of everything around me.

Today is distinctly different. Eating with hungry eyes I’m tasting anew my love of the water. I’m tantalized by what it brings—the slow curl of a wave, the rip tide that sweeps across the water, going its own separate direction.

Watching helmed kayakers skillfully ride waves, my heart races. I’m a kayaker, too. But I’m afraid of surf.

Wet-suited surfers lined up like bowling pins waiting for the next wave to score them an exhilarating strike. And five year old girls walk nonchalantly on water’s edge, dressed only in bathing suits. Was I ever that warm blooded?

I watch a young woman do cartwheels on the sand. She’s so full of life her body explodes with energy. A dagger of grief pierces my heart. During my days of distance running, it was my muscles exploding over steep trails.

In this moment, everything feels simple, easy and full of grace. How long has it been since I enjoyed a morning, free from buttressing myself against the future?

Back at the cottage I leave my sandy shoes outside the door. It’s quiet and warm inside. Sitting by the window, still watching the waves break, I feel giddy. I’m intrigued and watchful, treating the ocean like an old friend instead of a jilted lover.

For the past few days I’ve been listening to opera. Its beauty always moves me to tears. Like a decadent truffle, it’s deliciously satisfying. Now, looking through my CD’s I discover and play a 1960’s "oldies but goodies" collection. Little Richard belts out, "Lucille," and I squeal like a teenager.

My hips and feet move in rhythm with his voice. But I stall again. I feel too shy and awkward to dance. Cutting loose on candy instead, I devour malt balls and feel delightfully naughty.

I know I don’t want to live without passion—not tomorrow, not next week, not next year. After such a long drought, sipping precious moments of life at the beach has whetted my appetite. I make a silent commitment: "If it takes candy, rock and roll, or a cottage at the beach, then SO BE IT! Go for it girl! You’re worth it.