We walked along the beach in the fog, feeling the waves crash against our legs, looking out to the ocean, gray as it reflected the stormy sky.
When we turned around to walk back the way we came, we could barely see in front of ourselves. The storm was coming from the South and we had not seen how close it crept while our backs were turned.
A tightening came over me, and he asked me to slow down my pace because apparently I had begun to walk rather quickly. I did this because I did not know what we were walking into, because the thick fog clouded my vision, and without my vision the unknown brought me fear.
When a storm approaches, whether internal or external, our view shrinks and we can see only what is right in front of us. Have you ever driven through a massive rainstorm and not even been certain of the inches in front of you?
Time slows. The rest of the world melts away. You are forced to be present, and that perhaps means being present to fear, to a sense of having no control, to anxiety deep within your belly (I always feel this when a storm is coming, maybe you do too), to what matters in this moment.
And so I slowed.
I slowed my movement.
I slowed my breath.
I slowed the storm within me.
I walked on, knowing that all we can ever do is remain still and allow the storm to wash over us, or to walk into head first, and trust that we will find the other side.
The next day we came back to the ocean, sun blazing hot in the sky, water now a brilliant blue.
The storm had cleared.
It always does.