The Ocean as a Metaphor for Life



I often think about life as a vast ocean with all of us in it. Most of us are merely treading water while others are clinging to a  plank of wood or debris aimlessly floating about. Some of us have our arms wrapped around someone else, clenching their life jacket, determined to survive, while others are supporting a string of family members with only an inner tube, no life jackets. And then there are some of us who have managed to swim long and hard enough to find a raft, or even a small boat.  Indeed, staying afloat in life is a challenging endeavor, necessitating will power, determination, and sometimes luck. The ocean can be unpredictable and cruel at times; we must be suited to contend its changing dynamics—the undulating waves and corresponding thrashes with interspersed liminal spaces, and periods of recovery.  

When will the next wave come? Are we prepared to weather the subsequent storms of adversity? Have we made enough good decisions along the way to fortify us against the next trial? If we do not respect the ocean’s force and adapt accordingly, it will swallow us whole. Surviving the ocean can at times feel like walking a tight rope; one miscalculation can tip us into a maelstrom of despair—the reticent ocean abyss where the unknowns abound. 

The ocean is indifferent towards our needs or suffering; it has no regard for human mortality nor does it care because its permanence will outlast us all, rendering our suffering trivial. At times, the ocean’s vast obscurity can make anyone feel misplaced.  The sheer amount of greed woven into the fabric of life makes the swimming endeavor harder to bear. The waves come more frequently it seems. Are they getting taller, too? Sometimes the water is just too cold. Apathetic ships zoom by creating more waves, provoking indignation. The rent is due again already? Or the perennial  burden of  knowing you have to make it in a world that ostracizes you merely because of your genetic make-up.  Fighting through the malaise, the immutable aura of disfunction that pervades the ocean is easier to escape for some than it is for others.

The sun comes out, casting a warm sheen against the surface of the ocean, leading us to warmer waters. Hope. We must keep swimming against all odds if we want to realize our dreams. The incessant waves will at times thrash indiscriminately, hardening those with thick skin, the impervious, and besetting the weak. The waves, in their recurrent nature, will carry us into different directions, different waters, and inevitably bring us closer to different people. Therein opportunities will continuously come and go. We must make the best of what life presents us while never forgetting that victory sometimes disguises itself as defeat. 

The ocean affords us the element of free will to the extent that we can swim as long as we want and however we want, but the moment we stop, we drown and die. Life is the same way—the moment we stop trying coincides with the time when we begin drowning. We could fight the waves or let them carry us into peril; we decide. 

Wander and Wonder

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You’re having a dialogue with someone but you’re disinterested in the topic, or possibly distracted, yet you commit your ears out of respect to them. Without notice, your mind slowly drifts away and you begin to observe their choice of words and body language, instead of the message they are attempting to convey. While occasionally nodding your head to convey your attention to them, you are concurrently zoned in on their physical features and fathoming the idea that we, society, have defined which features should be rewarded. You then wonder what’s going on in their head, what their psychological state may be. What wars might they be waging in their head? Could they presently be harboring feelings of vulnerability because one or more of their physical features isn’t favored by the mainstream? Or perhaps lingering feelings of insecurity have eroded their self-confidence to the extent that they may have deprived themselves of wonderful opportunities. You ponder their choice in clothes and if they might be attempting to communicate a certain status to the world, possibly compensating, or if they’re aloof to such silly notions. Was this past weekend their laundry weekend? Perhaps they have a significant other who assisted with the aforementioned chore. Your eyes slowly fall to their hands as you inconspicuously try to discern their marital status. Single. But could they have possibly forgotten their ring at home? Or maybe they’re subscribers of the belief that love doesn’t necessitate tangible symbols of commitment. You quickly return your attention to their eyes so as to erase any doubt that you weren’t paying attention. You then begin to study their uneven eyebrows, not because you’re judging, but because you can relate, and wonder if they have recently grappled with feelings of insecurity, spurred by a bad day at the salon. You become fixated on the idea of cyclical mediocrity, bringing yourself to accept that sustained perfection at the barbershop or salon is nothing more than unrealistic optimism, and that we must make peace with the inevitable ebb and flow of good days and bad days. For a moment you forget that you’re in a live conversation, and without warning, you’re prompted by one of their questions. You’re wholly aware that the next few seconds are pivotal—you could give yourself away or dodge the ensuing awkwardness with wit and swiftness of words. After a split second of panic, you escape by giving them a quick, watered-down summary of the last thing you remember them saying and end the dialogue by saying something generic like, “I’m totally with you on that,” or “yeah, I know what you mean.”

A Tribute to CJ

The following is an excerpt from a reflection paper I wrote in graduate school. This account of his life was written from my perspective only.

Clayton Graham, who mostly went by CJ, was a nerdy, short, brown-haired, white, boy with a soft, squeaky voice, who managed to ingratiate himself with the popular crew during our years at Methuen High School. He was known for his intelligence and compassion. Over night it seemed, CJ rocketed to the limelight and began hanging around a lot with the cool kids—those arrayed in Abercrombie and Fitch and Hollister clothing. CJ and I weren’t that close but I respected him because he acknowledged my existence in ways that made me feel somewhat included and that meant a lot to me.

About five years after graduating from high school, one of CJ’s closest friends from our graduating class posted on Facebook that CJ had taken his own life. The post mentioned that he had been suffering from major depression and had struggled emotionally and psychologically after “coming out.” The post also included a recent photo of CJ, whom I would not have recognized had I not known it was him. CJ had gained a lot of weight since his days at MHS. His eyes looked heavy and forlorn; his countenance bespoke misery and despair. His injured, half smile conveyed suffering. I could only imagine how tormented and conflicted he felt. CJ was in the closet during all of high school, at a time when everyone was basking in their heteronormative privilege, much to his deprivation. I imagined a stoic, high-school CJ, who deep inside was an emotional wreck, slowly collapsing from the psychological weight of his burden, his secret. I imagined him contemplating whether his friends would accept him if had come out. I also imagined how events like the prom served only to intensify his feelings of despondency. CJ, and other students in the closet, were psychologically encumbered. They were wading gingerly through the thick, heteronormative fog of high school, struggling to find safe spaces amid a sea of oblivion. But no safe spaces were in sight at Methuen High; no place for CJ to unload the emotional freight that was suppressing his ability to self-actualize.

CJ may be gone but his story will continue to remind me that many of us are fighting silent wars everyday. It is these accounts of psychological trauma that pull me back and remind me to slow down in my thinking. The plights of others, whether psychological, emotional, physical, or financial, can linger silently for years especially if a stigma is attached to it. Over the years, I have become more intentional about reexamining my thoughts and challenging my perceptions of others. It is the empathy and compassion we exhibit everyday that makes this world more enjoyable for everyone.