Physical Battle Part II
That is definitely not me in the picture above. Find out how surfing almost killed and saved my life at the same time!
It’s only January of 2023 folks! Let’s get physical! I wanna take advantage of the new year’s resolution mindset (which I find problematic but will use it for the good) and challenge you to engage your body in your fight for joy. As intellectual, spiritual beings we can way overthink or over-spiritualize our lack of joy. We falsely believe there must be something we missed, must figure out or pray better about, in order be happy. Sometimes, all we need to do is sweat.
Other than sleep, when do you actually catch a break from your running thoughts? Some of you more evolved beings, on a higher spiritual plane, may report prayer and meditation give you that much needed break. The rest of us, must settle for something a bit more basic until we reach those soulful heights. Exercise! I know, you wanna punch me in the face, but don’t just yet. If you are truly stuck in a joyless rut, there is nothing like focused vigorous activity to jolt your brain out of it.
I remember back to my depressing days of infertility and trying to get pregnant. I was SAD. I mean really sad. All I could see was what I lacked. I prayed and prayed, I tried to think good thoughts, I cried and acknowledged my pain, I sought therapy, spiritual direction—nothing seemed to work. Until . . . I went surfing for the first time ever. My good friend Tamar, a seasoned surfer, had and still has, an unbelievable ability to transform mood through activity. She’s one those beautiful ethereal earthy chicks who loves nature and is most alive when she is out in it. Tamar may not know this, but she helped shake me out of the deepest sadness of my life and I am forever grateful.
It was 2011, I had been married 3 years and still no babies. I was 35 and my clock was maniacally ticking like a bomb. I was convinced my joy was incomplete because I hadn’t had a baby yet. Looking back, I wish I could grab and shake the 35-year-old me into the truth, but I’m not even sure a time machine would have helped. But no worries, what time travel could not fix, hurricane Irene did! One fine day, I proclaimed “Tamar, I want you to teach me to surf!” My sweet friend enthusiastically agreed. Tamar having been raised exposed to Montana skies and varsity volleyball, had learned something deeply within, that I, raised in a Brooklyn apartment with asthma, never quite learned. Physical activity in nature heals! So here I am, all 5 feet of me, at Rockaway Beach, Queens, carrying a borrowed, heavy 7- to 8-foot-tall surfboard toward the shore. The wind barreling into the length of my board, nearly knocking me over before I even got on the water. I get to the water and the seas looked rough. I mean stupid rough. Rockaway is no Hawaii, but the rip tides in Queens, NY have claimed the lives of many a swimmer. Tamar seemed confident, so I thought, “Screw it! What do I have to lose?”
So, after a brief lesson on the shoreline, under ominous skies, I was ready to hit the waves! Yikes, the water was untypically chilly for August, but that didn’t seem to deter other surfers, who turned out in decent numbers that day. “What the f@#*!”, shrugging off the worry, “I’m a great skier (which I am), how hard could surfing be?” Turns out, my natural ability on snowy mountains does not translate to ocean water. Five steps onto the wet surf of a million broken shells, I fall, scraping my knees, but bouncing right back to my feet, refusing to let that clumsy start be my first wipe out. And Tamar gracefully lands her slim belly onto her surfboard like a mermaid ballerina, urging me to do the same and paddle alongside her. I somehow catch up to where it’s about 3 feet deep, and the waves are definitely choppy, but not too crazy. We start to paddle deeper and the waves grow in size, but they are still small enough for my board to gently float over the watery hills. Not for long. Soon I get some airtime after my board ramps off this 4-footer. Next, Tamar signals me to paddle hard for the next oncoming wave, that to me, looks like a monster. But, hey, my friend seems confident, so I go for it! Paddle, paddle, paddle and turn to set myself up to catch my first wave. Then, I feel the power of the storm behind me and the adrenaline surge through my blood as I try to push the board down and rise my body up, then instant flip! The broad is above me and I am underwater rolling in the wave that was supposed to be my ride, my feet becoming tangled in the leash that is meant to save a surfer, not drown one. I desperately tried to unravel my feet from the leash as I rolled. I thought, “s*%t, is this it? Am I gonna die on my first try at surfing? Bummer!” What felt like ages beneath the foamy sea water, was just seconds. Thankfully, my board was pulling me into the shallows, and I finally realized I could just stand up, regardless of being tangled, in what was now just 2 feet of ocean. I made it! Tamar somehow gracefully glided over to where I was coughing up nasty rockaway sea water and asked if I was Ok. I eventually replied, “yup” in between coughs. Then I worked up the courage to ask “Um, Tamar, are these ideal conditions to be learning how to surf?” She responds: “Yeah, probably not.” And that wrapped up my first and last attempt to surf.
So, what is the point, you ask? During that crazy try at something new and physically challenging, I did not, could not, think about my failure to conceive, not once. I was so focused on making my body do something alien, and on not drowning, that I had no time to think about how sad I was. Although I nearly drowned, I had tricked my brain that day and I vowed to continue to do so, just never again on a surfboard during a hurricane. Tamar may not have given me her love of surfing, but she taught me to live out loud physically! Remaining in a funk, depressed over what I couldn’t make happen, was no longer an option. I decided, in conjunction with prayer, therapy, meds, to add activity to the mix. Not just any activity, new fun experiences of physical activity—hiking, camping, rafting, jogging and even rock climbing. I joined the gym and attempted to recreate that endorphin rush on a regular basis.
When depression hits, the last thing your body wants is to be active. The temptation to stay in bed and pull the covers over your head is so strong, but exactly the very thing to be avoided. To “listen to your body” at such a moment would deceive you, because it lacks the neurochemicals necessary to motivate you toward “healthy choices”. Come to think of it, regardless of my current brain chemistry, I rarely feel like breaking a sweat. I much rather watch a movie while inhaling a platter of cookies. Or worse, I’d rather try to figure out the trending problem in my life, and work out a solution like a math problem. Except I’ve never been good at math and some problems just can’t be solved by thinking or praying harder. Sometimes we simply must surrender the circumstances and go for a walk! It takes an act of sheer will and a literal leap of faith to put down your problem and get up and get going. Choosing to engage in physical activity IS faith in action. You are choosing to trust God will act on your behalf without you striving to make it happen. If He doesn’t take care the problem for you, it will still be there when you return, except you will be different, refreshed, and literally stronger to overcome it. Umm, but maybe try something a little less death defying than surfing in a hurricane! ; )