Several years ago, I finally solved a lifelong mystery. It was a stunning revelation, and in the time since then, I have dealt with it pretty well intellectually. And I suppose you could say (using my sailboat metaphor) that I have been zig-zagging across the wide lake, hoping to avoid what I knew would eventually be a tsunami of emotional fallout. This winter, I was thankfully offered a small sandy beach upon which to pull my boat, and I could have ditched the vessel and run for the hills. Maybe I should have run for the hills. But I didn't. I turned around, faced the oncoming wave, and let it crash all over me. There's a moment when you just cannot run any more. You're too tired, too "pregnant," too ready. Standing up, looking the thing in the eye, even embracing its power, is the only option.
I am still standing, but I am badly shaken. I'm not even sure that what I am feeling is, strictly speaking, "emotion" -- horror, incredulity, a sense of loss. Maybe the deeper emotions are still to come. Yikes.
Paradoxically, while feeling utterly shattered, I immediately feel more whole, more of value too. I sense that inner, unconditional joy may now be possible for the first time. I will write more about this as I can; meanwhile, I acknowledge my deep gratitude for the time and place to face the monster wave. Truth can be a tsunami. It always eventually hits the shore. And it always transforms.
