“Every exit is an entry somewhere.” - Loss, Letting Go and Learning to Surf

Back in August 2011 I was travelling solo around the world. The following is about an encounter I had on the South Island of New Zealand which was written at the time.

In Queenstown I had the privilege of getting to know a guy named Chris. Chris is 19. At the age of 15 he was already an alcoholic, and when he was 17, had to be resuscitated after one too many binges. He found himself without a home, clinging to life and hope, but slowly and surely rebuilt his life, reconnecting with his family, surrounding himself with love. His appearance came at a time of great turbulence in my life, and his insightfulness, encouragement and general demeanour were of significant comfort.

We spoke for hours, sheltering from the New Zealand cold, about life, love, kindness, friendship and our shared love of photography. Chris loves to surf. Surfing became his form of meditation, a chance to let go of any negative emotions, and connect with the grace of the ocean, reaching out to curving waves, seeing only the shoreline, feeling only the sea.

Recently, Chris had his car stolen. He'd gone surfing, and hid his keys beneath his car. As he stood on the beach, surfboard in hand, he glanced back and saw his car being driven away. Momentarily shocked, he looked towards the waves, and decided that his car was gone for good, that there was little he could really do. The surf however, was still there, calling his name, gently whispering to his soul. He took to the waves and lost all sense of self, surrendering to the surf, outside of the endless, clattering, marching band of time. When he emerged, he stood dumbfounded, wondering where his car had gone. Chris had immersed himself so totally in the moment, he'd actually forgotten his car had been stolen. When he told me this, I grinned. What a wonderful lesson...

So much of life can be consumed with the fretful anxiety that we may lose the things we own, the things we love, that often our grip tightens around even the most poisonous of attachments, afraid of letting go, afraid we will be diminished, afraid that we are unworthy. Yet, loss is so intrinsically a part of life, that the two skip hand in hand, merrily beating a well worn path towards death's door, where loss finally turns to life and smiles warmly before consuming the sum of all our apparent worth into a fleeting breeze on the wind, or the crashing wave against an endless shoreline. Nature accepts loss with grace, encouraging the blossoming of spring, the heat of summer and the eventual demise through autumn into the quiet death of winter.

Along crumbled pavements, flowers still grow, indifferent to the past, unaware of the future, dancing gleefully as they face the sun. Such a state of bliss seems so difficult for us to attain, as we stare hopelessly at the countless car wrecks of our past, gleaming in a light only cast by hindsight. And yet, these swift dramas, these broken attachments, to things, to people, they mean very little when you stack them against this finite line of time. To grasp, to cling, to embroil oneself into the endless scenarios of what could be, or what might have been, is to dishonour this moment, the moment that is happening right here, before your eyes. There it goes, lost on the wind, dissolved into a raindrop, never to pass again. Chris lost everything, and then gained more than he ever could have imagined. My experience has been the same. When a space is left, let it grow, let it expand, be vulnerable, be open, never let the deep cuts of hurt shut down these wondrous emotions. Stand in the middle of oncoming traffic, knowing that you'll get hit. Lay down your armour. Love is greater than loss. So much awaits if you just turn and adjust your perspective. Look away from that metaphorical car that is speeding from you, look towards the waves, the ocean, the space. Learn to let go. Learn to surf. And, you know what? Chris' car turned up three days later.