🏞 Making space for dragons

And inviting wordless conversations

I celebrated my birthday earlier this month, and my husband and I went oceanside for the occasion. I’ve lived within an hour of an ocean or a sea most of my life, and periodically visiting the water feels like a necessary pilgrimage.

My husband went into the water for a swim, and I lay back on the warm sand and contemplated the blue sky. I used to think I would love to live on a beach somewhere, but I’ve changed my mind. After an hour or two, the constant movement of the water makes me feel similarly restless. Instead, nowadays, I dream of living in a lush forest, maybe somewhere with a lake. Immediately, on the heels of that thought, I wonder if that is what life is about, a gradual moving from what you’re sure you want and towards what you don’t yet know. 

I’m sure you have experienced this on birthdays or even just regular days when the need to make meaning (of life, from life) feels urgent and accessible. Even as I laughed at myself for wanting a one-sentence formula, a part of me still yearned to understand some elusive essence. A puffy white cloud drifted slowly to the right, and I followed its progress. It was hard to believe that while I spent a year on ordinary living, the earth had orbited the sun and come back to more or less the same spot. After all, most days, we don’t remember we are moving, part of a more complex circling than the life we can see. There was a tiny white dot of a cloud somewhere right above me, and I squinted at it. It wasn't a cloud, but the moon making its own circular journeys. 

I thought of all these circles, overlapping and not, and I imagined each of us, like different planets, walking on paths around a blue-green lake in a vast forest. And for a moment, imagine that, like the earth, you have completed a year's worth of walking and returned to where you started. There is a bench, and you sit down. 

“What is it,” you ask aloud, “the meaning of life?” 

Almost immediately, a fish glides close to the surface of the water, nudging the water plants. Of course, you ignore it. It’s just fish. 

There’s some rumbling from above, and you look up warily at the sky, not wanting to be caught in a sudden thunderstorm. But there are no clouds, and you go back to staring at the water.

Is life an onion, you wonder moodily, one you keep peeling to get to the central mystery?

There is movement to your right, and you turn. A group of little birds are playing a complicated game of tag. Birds! You turn back to the water. 

“Is life an onion?” This time, you almost shout the question as though the universe (life) is hard of hearing.

When there is no immediately apparent response, you sigh unhappily. Life is like the water, you conclude, inscrutable. Maybe even uncaring. And you get up to go.

You may not know this, but a majestic dragon waits for you at the bench.

Every time (moment, day, year) you pause, the dragon steps forward because she wants to talk to you and share her thoughts. 

“What is it,” you ask aloud, “the meaning of life?” 

The dragon sits down next to you, and she gently clears her throat. She opens her mouth to speak but stops when she sees you glancing at the sky in alarm. When you mumble something, she waits politely. She even blushes a little because she has been waiting to talk to you for so long.

“Is life an onion?” you shout.

The dragon has to ponder that, but before she can completely mull over the onion -nature of life, you’re already sighing and walking away.

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I wrote this post as a reminder (to myself, and to others with whom it may resonate) that when we stop trying to wring the moment for the elusive meaning of life, and our instinctual nature notices the movement of the fish, the birds playing, and the shapes of the clouds, we have already found answers we are seeking.

I love hearing from you! Please share your thoughts and comments on the post below! Have a great week!

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