Disclaimer: I would like to express sincere prayers to the victims affected by hurricanes Helene and Milton. This writing piece is a metaphorical short story on my analysis of an excerpt by Haruki Murakami.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” ―Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
I’m furiously scribbling letters to the messenger god with the only pen I can find on this tiny wretched boat. I’m praying that he makes it on time before the waves take me under. I hadn’t anticipated a storm when I had sailed out this morning. The waters looked calm and I had been anxiously waiting for this day so I could be alone with my thoughts.
<Earlier in the day>
The pot of hot water I’m standing over adds a sheen layer of steam to my skin. It’s ready to be transferred over to my favorite mug for tea but I’m standing by the stove a little longer savoring the domestic comfort of the moment. The air is cold and salty by the shore and I find myself missing the bright hot sun of this summer that I’ve been running away from. After my tea ritual, I go about searching for my moleskine and a few favorite pens to write with. One thing that continues to hold true as the years waltz around me is this: true companionship is found within the pages of a journal.
I guess it’s silly for a girl who doesn’t know how to swim to sail out into the middle of an ocean just to sit in a boat and contemplate life. But that is exactly what I felt called to do. The ground under my feet has been moving too fast for me to keep up. My feet were sinking in quicksand with every step I took. I needed to sail away from land and allow my thoughts to breathe the seawater. It felt necessary to run away, and this literal emotional escape was a calculated risk I was willing to take.
After a few moments of getting myself familiar with the oars and cursing myself for skipping upper body workouts, I was smoothly rowing in calm crystal clear waters. Poseidon, the Greek god of the seas, must be in a good mood today. I quickly took a peek at my reflection in the water and marveled at my face. The same face that was passed down by a lineage of woman that created my grandma who then created my mother who then created me. I used to critique my face so much and find shame in the shape of my nose or the color of my eyes. I forgot that my face was molded by the stars for eon and eons and it finally find me. It holds the love of every ancestor that came before me and is home to the twinkle I would see in the eyes of my dad.
I pull my journal out of my bag and start putting these thoughts onto the crisp paper. The rowboat I’m renting for the summer sways to one side a little too fast to my liking and my paranoia of storms starts to creep in. I shun this negative thought away and start writing about the contents in my heart. The wellness gurus I follow on Instagram constantly tell me that my thoughts create my reality. I must think positive and always be happy. Languish? What does that even mean? There’s absolutely no languishing happening in this brain. I’m completely happy and everything is always fine. I repeat these words to myself over and over again just like how one responds to a friend that asks “Is everything okay?” but you don’t want to burden them with the boulder you must roll up a hill everyday just to show face.
Pouring one’s heart onto a piece of paper isn’t all romantic as they make it look in books and movies. They fail to mention how difficult it feels to come up with words that accurately describe exactly what you’re feeling. I think how fun it would be to have a journal that talks back to you. I really think we should give Ginny Weasley some sympathy because I too, as a 11 year old girl, would have developed some type of weird book boyfriend relationship with my journal if it happened to write back to me and tell me how pretty I was. I’m glad she got out but hey, at that level of naivety, it could have been any of us.
Finally my fingers pick up speed and I’m writing about the last time I felt a sense of peace (never), a day in my life where I didn’t overthink anything (doesn’t exist), and the one time I didn’t feel everything so deeply (a lie, I feel everything). I write about how I’ve been hiding my true self from friends, family and lovers. How hard it feels to open up to the uncertainty that comes with vulnerability. How easy it feels to close yourself to the world and stay in a cocoon of comfort when looking at fear in the eyes. I’m writing about the first time I was forced to be a girl and navigate a world where I’m judged first for my appearance before I can even say hello. I’m writing about the first boy that said something sweet but tainted his words with poison when he found something a lot less wild. I write about how Warsan Shire made me believe that it was okay if I was difficult to love. I am a horse running alone. I am wild and free and untamed and I don’t need to change myself for anyone.
For Women Who Are Difficult to Love
by Warsan Shireyou are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.
I’m sharing with my journal my years of adulthood when I felt like I had it all figured out and then the rug was pulled under me. I’ve come to learn that no one really has it all figured out, but we all sure so one hell of a job pretending like we do. In the age of social media and constant exposure, the idea of perfection is valued more over what is truly happening behind closed eyes. The pages of my journal are catching every tear drop and the ink is getting muddled but I can’t stop pouring. I’m reminded of the words by Jamie Oliveria, “I am afraid that if I open myself, I will not stop pouring. Why do I fear becoming a river? What mountain gave me such shame”? Except, I’m not afraid right now and I’m not turning into a river, I’m simply becoming one with the ocean.
The wind suddenly blows my hair in all directions and I look up from my journal in search of a hair tie. That’s when I realize the drops on the pages didn’t only come from my eyes.. it had started to rain. The clouds above were overcast. I was so lost in my words that I didn’t even notice how heavy the raindrops were falling. I scrambled to collect my belongings and grab a hold of the oars so I could find some shelter before the storm took a turn for the worse. A strong gust of wind pushed me back and my hands lost hold of the oars. The boat began to shake violently and I feared it might topple over any second. I guess Poseidon wasn’t in a good mood after all. A strange thought began to form in my mind as I struggled to stay calm in the chaos. What if I had created this storm with my mind? There was downright misery pouring out of my heart a few moments ago and now it has manifested all around me. They say the sea has a heart of its own and get’s jealous if it senses there is another being trying to compete with its tumultuous nature. From what I know about myself, my heart contains no limit to the feelings it can contain but never in a thousand oceans would I think about going head to head with the godforsaken sea.
I’m furiously scribbling letters Hermes, the messenger god, with the only pen I can find on this tiny wretched boat. I’m asking him for his help and I’m praying that he makes it on time before the waves take me under. I hadn’t anticipated a storm when I had sailed out this morning but my feelings got the best of me. I think of my breathing exercises and how the navy seals also hold for a count of four and release for a count of four whenever they feel stressed. The breathing brings about a sliver of calmness that I’m surprised I’m able to muster up. I close my eyes as the waves rock me from side to side and I begin to think of happy thoughts.
Ten fingers, ten toes, two arms, two legs, and one head. All still here in one place. I feel the drops of water fall onto my tanned summer skin and I’m grateful for the sensation of touch. I think of my dog Orion’s fur and how soft it feels the day after he’s groomed. I think of that silly little bandana the groomer ties on him which makes him look like some distinguished gentleman. I think of the blueberry smoothie I make every morning and how I drop ten or so blueberries into his food bowl so he can live longer. I read somewhere that blueberries are a superfood for dogs and I need him to live as long as I do. I think of the new café that just opened up in the town over and how I’ll be spending early Saturday mornings getting coffee and pastries with my siblings. I think of us driving over with excitement and looking at awe at the menu and then finally digging my teeth into a freshly basked croissant. I think of all of the books I have yet to read and how alone they must feel with no one to open their pages.
I think and I think and I think. I think of my life right now and how the simple pleasures bring me so much happiness. So why do I crave more? Why do I bring myself to the middle of an ocean just to cry about everything I cannot change? Why do I endanger my life until it is on the brink of survival to feel like the will to continue living? Why do I need to remember the happy moments to forget the sad? It’s exhausting. Being a human is exhausting.
My eyes are still closed and my skin begins to feel the sun again. After what felt like an eternity, the storm has cleared. I give the sea god my gratitude for his mercy. I start the journey home, thankful that I still have the physical strength to row. Is this how Odysseus felt when we was caught in storms and made it out alive? I have a secret feeling that he loved the journey more than actually finding his way back home. I think if he was given the option to come back home to Ithaca in one year rather than the ten, he would pick ten solid years of hardships and adventures.
Maybe life is about finding a sense of calmness in the storm. It’s about finding shelter and peace in the knowledge that it will pass. It’s about knowing that it will indeed pass, as all things do. As the oracles have foretold, nothing lasts forever and we must all learn how to weather strange powerful storms. They are often catalysts for profound change and growth. Once the storm has overstayed it’s welcome, it will eventually bring out the sun and damp soil, and new trees. The people and animals will learn how to begin again, but this time around, they will be stronger. Someone once asked me what would you call this chapter in your life? I thought for a moment and said “A thunderstorm over the ocean”. I am finding patience in these waves while I’m on a boat swaying side to side. I’ve caught it’s eye and I’m learning how to keep myself upfloat until it’s safe again to make the journey home. I won’t be the same person at the beginning of the storm and for once, I am okay with it.
This is the lesson.