Daryl Wood's Blog

I paddle my kayak out of Eagle Harbour across the shallow water of the two rocky shoals and into the open waters of Lake Huron. It’s 5:30 a.m. so I have the lake to myself as most people are waiting for the sunrise to nudge them out of bed. As I navigate the unusually calm waters I notice to my right, hanging low in the western sky, is the full, bright beautiful moon I sat with in the dark last night. She is, it seems, unwilling to disappear into the daylight. My eyes are drawn to her over and over and I hear my brother’s words “Pray to the moon when she’s full and round and all you seek shall be found.” He said these to me way back in June of 1997 when our father was critically ill in the hospital. My brother prayed and I prayed and countless others prayed. My father got four more years to the surprise of his surgical team and while he faced constant struggles, he did a lot of things that brought him pleasure.

On a whim, I looked up this quote and discovered it was a portion of the longer quote by Frank Herbert, an American author. His original words were “We pray to a moon: she is round – Luck with us will then abound, what we seek for shall be found, In the land of solid ground. “I liked my brothers’ version better. It was simple and landed with me. But what I did love about finding Frank was more quotes that really resonated with me. In these early hours on the water, I remembered he also wrote, “Without change, something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken.”

That’s what it feels like this morning. Something is awakening inside of me as I watch the Buck Moon (as she is called) linger over me, teasing out something deeper within my soul. Something I avoid until I’m alone before the sun comes up on a quiet bay.

This ‘pray to the moon’ thing is a bit odd as is prayer in general these days (at least from my corner of the world). Lots of people talk about it and say things like “Our thoughts and prayers are with you” but I wonder if they really are praying and if they are, who or what are they praying to. We will never know with any certainty how much or if those prayers helped my father but since I don’t have any evidence to the contrary, I choose to believe that they did help in some way. The idea that healing can be extracted from prayers to a full, round moon is comforting. And I like that she fills the morning sky with just as much fierce commitment as she did in the dark of night. How many full moons have I watched in my sixty plus years is hard to calculate but I’ve had a front row seat since moving to this home in 1999. I know that after my brother whispered those words to me in a busy hospital corridor I have always said them either out loud or to myself when I’m anywhere near her. Even when I couldn’t see the full moon and knew it was there, I said/thought the prayer. That’s how faith works. We trust something whether we can see it or not. In our hearts, we just know.

Faith feels close at hand when I’m on the lake in the pre-dawn hours slicing through the clear waters of Lake Huron. The peace I feel makes me pull inward where I can blend my chaotic human experience with the soul defining ease of my inner world. Here, it is possible to see things in a different light, in a more spiritual context. It’s what has been feeding me since my first kayak trip of the season through a thin layer of ice on March 17^th. Those days I wore a heavy sweater under my life jacket and searched the skies for anything that would contrast with the sunrise. I’m still looking for the contrasts.

Pushing my way through the narrow channel I look to my left where the eastern sky has started to glow with the brilliance of the sun still hidden below the horizon. The gorgeous pinks, oranges and yellows dance across the ribbons of clouds that give such a beautiful contrast. Contrast. I want to see the sun in all her glory, bursting with glaring light across the sky. But I know I can’t look directly at her without burning my eyes which is why the wafts of cloud make it possible to enjoy the light with just enough filter as if a stretch of soft gauze is draped over the blazing sun.

And it gives me contrast. That’s what is more than evident this morning as the sun suddenly pops up to shine blindingly bright on my left while the moon is holding firm with her soft white image on my right. It’s almost too much to take in as I stop paddling to appreciate being caught halfway between the sun and the moon.

The sun is calling me to start the day, jump into action, follow the energy. This is a new beginning and the promise of a day full of possibilities. The moon is gently reminding me of the calm, quiet reflection the end of a day brings. That space that is without interruption or distraction. The sun says, ‘get going, keep moving, lots to see and do’ while the moon says, ‘just breathe, close your eyes, remember’. It’s such an odd place to be – halfway between the sun and the moon – but it’s a place more familiar than perhaps I’d like. It’s the place I’ve lived in my whole life. Sometimes I knew that’s where I was and sometimes, I didn’t realize until ‘it’ was over that I had been standing with one foot in each of these worlds.

Sitting a bit longer I turn towards each of the sun and moon to capture as much as I can before I will have to return to shore and start my day. I cherish this sacred time when I have the space to sing or laugh or cry. And I do use it to cry. There are many reasons to cry right now, and I doubt most people would know that’s what I’m doing in my little red kayak out past the safety of the point. I’m a good ‘hider’ of feelings, except when I’m not. And this summer I have not been as good at it as usual. I’m just carrying too much and am tired of pretending. But I’ve learned that most people are at a complete loss of what to do with someone suffering emotional meltdowns, PTSD, grief, and loss. After all, we are 16 months into COVID, and we are all fed up hearing bad news. So, the circle where I can tell my truth and be witnessed in my sadness has grown very small. And even there, I notice I’ve become reluctant to keep talking. No one has the answers and I just get annoyed when they offer advice.

And it is the contrast that keeps me going. As much as the difficult emotions weigh so heavy on my heart there have been times of great joy. Texting my loving half-sister to keep her spirits up in her confining hospital bed as she faces the end of her life is overlayed with the trio of neighbours racing with us out of the harbour in our boats to spend a day swimming and exploring the stunning islands of the Fathom Five National Marine Park. One envelopes me in the aching anticipation of loss of someone I have only had seven years to build family with. Someone I have come to rely on for a ‘hit’ of acknowledgement and support in her sweet, kind way. And suddenly everyone wants to talk about dying. Even my coaching client when I ask what we’ll focus on in today’s call says bluntly “Death”. Oh crap, this can’t be happening. But it is and it gives us both the opportunity to explore a way of being with something that hurts. She will define for herself how she will experience the grief and embrace the memories. Another contrast. Neither is ‘better’ or ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. Both just are.

By contrast, rafted together on our little flotilla of boats and jet skis there is lots of idle chatter. We shriek as we enter the cold water of Georgian Bay and wait with excitement for Deb to do her signature dive. I cling to my oversized pool noodle for extra security since I am likely the weakest swimmer in the bunch. We are as carefree as the wisps of clouds that hurry past us and tell funny stories as we float under the shadow of thirty-foot rocky cliffs. I seem to have forgotten whatever it was that sucked the life out of my spirit just hours ago.

The long ride home I stare intently at the cascading wake behind the boat. Wayne Dyer once asked (And forgive me for paraphrasing) what drives the boat? It’s not the wake – that’s the vanishing trail that’s left behind. It doesn’t drive the boat anymore than my past ‘should’ drive my life. But sometimes, and maybe more often than I’d like to admit, I’m letting my past drive my life. I seem to have switched my inner compass to neutral and let the momentum of years gone by be the force that dictates where and when and how I will move along the path of my life. The worst is that I know better. I’ve been teaching other people – mostly women in mid-life – how to step into the present, take full responsibility for their experience of life and live with passion and purpose. How did I miss that lesson for myself?

Back to the present moment in the early hours on the water. The higher the sun rises the more the moon seems to be moving south and dipping lower in the sky. I am wondering at what point it will be out of sight and how does that actually happen? Will it simply fade as it appears to be doing or will it suddenly drop below the horizon? How long will it take before I can’t make out the shape or patterns on its surface? I keep my gaze bouncing from the moon to the sun and decide to turn my vessel back towards the shore. Almost as if a signal light had changed, I look up to see the moon is gone. How did I miss it? But I remind myself – sort of gently – that I’ve been missing lots of things lately. I don’t seem to have the same attention span or retainment that I used to. I’m way too distracted by world and local events and the distraction of distracting myself with busyness to avoid whatever it is I seem to want to avoid. I’m guessing it is feelings, but I keep running, so putting a strong bead on it is nearly impossible.

Just as I’m scanning the sky for the now invisible moon, I spot the eagle. Perched high on a tree on McDonald’s Point (our local name for the land owned by our friends from San Antonio, Texas) the beautiful bald eagle sits quietly. Not so much the crows around him/her who are cackling at super high decibels and circling the tree. They land nearby and then dart towards the eagle, swooping and missing their mark intentionally, I’m sure. They are no match for this massive bird but seem to want to claim the territory. I’m awed by the patience of the eagle who sits firmly with only the occasional slight head movement to observe the noisy crows. I think to myself that I would like some of that inner strength. I’d like to hold firm to my centre no matter how much shouting is going on around me. To be so calm in the face of predators, irritants, detractors. That would be a triumph.

The sun is warming my back as now I face the bird straight on and begin a slow, telepathic conversation with the eagle. I let it know that I am willing to sit with it and wait out these annoying crows. They keep up the pestering for a full ten minutes and I stay still in my boat. I keep thanking the eagle for showing me how to be strong no matter what. I think of the inspiring Bob Marley quote I’ve shared so many times “You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.” I keep asking myself if I really do have no choice. For over twenty years I’ve been teaching people that they ALWAYS have a choice; even doing nothing is still a choice. And yet this quote would suggest that sometimes, we don’t have a choice. And I’ve been so strong these past four years. I tell myself that I had to be. The truth is that I could have crumbled and on a few rare occasions, I did. But most of the time I tapped into an inner strength for the physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual capacity to handle the crushing impact of my husband’s cancer treatment.

And still, the eagle and I are determined to ‘out wait’ the crows. Finally, they give up and one by one, as if following an organized exit plan, they leave. Now it’s just the eagle and I and the peacefulness of early morning. I wait a bit longer and then turn my kayak back again toward the shore. As I do, I sense something nearby and look up to see the eagle glide, full winged, alongside me above the water towards an island perfect for observing the surroundings. I pause to take in the rarity of this moment and watch as this magnificent bird resettles on a distant pine. It feels like a warm farewell.

Again, I think of the contrast. The majestic eagle looking so strong, so confident and assured. No sounds, just a quiet presence. At the same time, the small, seemingly anxious crows darting everywhere and piercing the air with their caw, caw, caw. Both part of this environment and both having an impact. No right or wrong. Just is. I’m thinking of how the contrasting behaviours might be the backdrop for each to be more noticed. If not for the serene elegance of the eagle, might I be less disturbed by the crows who frequent the shoreline more often than the eagle.

The sun is higher in the sky now and it’s up to me to decide how I want to spend the next dozen or so hours that I’ll be awake. I know I’ll drink the cup of hot water with a generous slice of lemon that my husband has made for me. We will probably sit on the dock and talk about the water level and whether or not it’s up or down. This is a big topic on our bay as boats and docks and shorelines felt the fluctuation last year with record high water levels. We were all tasked with reinforcing the water’s edge to preserve our little scraps of land. We adjusted the height of our docks and moved boat lifts to accessible places. In the language of COVID and change, we pivoted. And pivoting is what I’ve been doing my whole life. There never was one path, one direction, one outcome. It was always me with my ear to the ground waiting for the next sign that it was time to change. Waiting to pivot.

Given my inclination to be of service I learned at a young age that pleasing others could possibly get me what I wanted most which was to be loved and adored. Everyone wants that and there’s no big story here about another person trying to be validated. It is in so many ways the mantra of generations of offspring raised by parents who did their best and missed the mark. I am one of them. My friend’s mother said the most beautiful words when her partner was lamenting the mistakes she had made as a mother. This wise Irish nana said, “You weren’t perfect, but you mostly got it right.” Oh, how I want to believe that about myself now and wish I had known forty years ago that the mistakes I was making (and there were lots) would somehow be held in contrast with the many things I did well.

Living on the lake is an exercise in pivoting so you would think that after 23 years I’d have learned how to do it. At least I can do it when a seiche floods the patio and then draws the water full on out to who knows where leaving the shore bare of water until the slosh brings it back. I’ve figured out how to make sure there is nothing near the edge when night falls because who knows where it will be if the wind and waves decide to invade us overnight dragging a variety of forgotten items westward towards Michigan. I’m all in for changing plans when it’s too rough to boat (if the captain doesn’t want to go, neither do I) or too wet to walk (even though I lived for a year and a half in Burnaby, B.C. where it rained a lot). My difficulty seems to come when people let me down or don’t meet my expectations which leads me to the same thing: feeling disappointed.

I can’t seem to pivot as well when I feel judged or abandoned. If ‘they’ are to be believed, then all these negative reactions come from childhood experiences. Since I’ve been tracing my ‘stuff’ back through the decades I realize ‘they’ are probably right. What is so confounding to me is that knowing this hasn’t stopped me from catapulting headlong into self-destructive thoughts or behaviours instead of recognizing the source (some long ago misunderstanding or missed connection) and letting it go. As I write this now, I am acutely aware that I have studied very hard these past twenty-five years to learn how to self-manage, self-appreciate, self-forgive, and self-acknowledge. It has not only been my life’s work but the work I have taught in women’s retreats, at workshops and through my coaching practice. Still, the ‘lack’ in my past stubbornly haunts my present day life.

As I dock my kayak, I decide to tell my husband about my ‘halfway between the sun and the moon’ and the eagle experience. He is his usual patient listener absorbing everything I’m telling him with great curiosity. He’s very good at that and it is definitely one of his best assets. But the more I talk, the more diluted the experience feels. I remember cautioning retreat participants to be mindful of what and how much they shared when they got home. Taken out of context, and everything is unless you were there, it’s easy to lose the magic or the essence of an experience when trying to describe it to someone else. Sitting halfway between the sun and the moon with a follow up engagement with an eagle loses its depth and holiness in the retelling. And yet, I’ve done it again in this book. Somehow, I believe that someone (maybe even my husband) can feel the power of the experience in my words. And the thing is, I felt such a compelling urge to write that even if no one ever ‘gets’ the impact of my experience, I followed my inner knowing to put it on paper. At this point, I am not writing to be read anyway. I’m writing because it heals me and fulfills me which is yet another contrast. The cleaving inward and pushing out at the same time.

My husband’s patience is one of the greatest gifts of our relationship. He is a wise soul who listens thoughtfully and responds with genuine interest. Except when he doesn’t! Like all of us, he is also a contrast in how he listens. When he is not fully attentive to my chatter, he is preparing to give advice or tell his own story. We all do this and it’s usually how we connect and share.

This quiet morning on Eagle Harbour all that matters is that a short time ago, I was a living witness to the incredible beauty and power of being halfway between the sun and the moon.

July 2021