During the quiet, still time of a yoga class known as savasana, I often experience a picture or clarity that helps me make sense of where I am in life. For a long time, savasana brought me a picture of myself in the deep water, and showed me the ways God was revealing Himself and helping me there, as I learned to float, trust, and sometimes swim through some pretty hard seasons. On one particular day, I felt myself carried to a grassy space outside a lighthouse. Recently, I stood on that grassy shore and waved as my children sailed away, one in a large red boat and the other in a smaller yellow one. They went in different directions, but it was good. The wind was in their crisp, white sails, and I turned and found my mother who unlocked the door of the lighthouse for me. I did not enter.
Yesterday in savasana, I had the distinct experience of my son’s bright red boat travelling further away from me toward his own lighthouse, with the sun dancing in the sky above him. I turned and tended a garden there in the grass, growing tulips and roses of many colors. I have yet to make it up the stairs of the lighthouse, and though I do wonder about it, I’m not forcing it. I imagine that day will come.
Later on, as I laid there on my yoga mat, my son’s boat made it around his own lighthouse and returned onto the grassy shore. He looked to be thirty or forty years of age, handsome, with a beard and his frame filled out, and he came and picked the flowers I had grown and laid them at a grave marked only with an anchor. I knew the grave was mine, and I knew the anchor meant hope, and immediately I knew that my life’s legacy might be centered around that symbol. I have no idea as to the meaning of the flowers, or why my son picked them, but I can guess.
It’s weird, I know.
I try not to overthink things like this, not anymore. I try to hold things loosely in my hands and not wring the life out of them like I tend to do, but obviously there’s a lot here to mull over and dissect. I’m ready to turn the page on quite a lot of my deep water season and really process everything that’s happened in my life and spirit, but I’ve been feeling like that last step toward solid ground is not yet complete; my foot is in the air and I’m sometimes afraid I’ll fall before I ever get there and arrive. I’m off-balance somehow. I want to step, stop, breathe, and only then, look back. It’s scary back there and it doesn’t feel safe to look back too soon.
I know the only solid footing is God Himself. Jesus talked about it in the scriptures, how we can build our houses on sand or rock, and we all know the right one to choose. I know there won’t be complete resolution on anything this side of Heaven. Still, I long for the next chapter, to put both feet down somewhere secure and quietly tend my garden. It’s what my soul needs more than anything.
There is so much to learn in a deep water season, so much stretching and growing that happens, and it’s important to take it all in to use the best you can. But it comes at a cost, too, and I think those who’ve fought their way through a season like this always carry a bit of that water with them, like a weight at your hip or a baptism around your neck. Maybe the best thing you can do with this water is to nourish a few seeds wherever you land. That’s what I’m hoping to do.
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