Read More Stories
Home
About Coaching
Who I Work With
How I work
Services
Free Stuff
Gift Shop
Meet Donna
Contact Donna
|
When my family and I visited Mount Desert Island this
summer, the islands captured my attention. From one vantage
point, islands were clustered together, and seemed to be
touching each other. They reminded me of how we might
gather when having a family picture taken. It was somewhat
comforting to see that the islands were not so solitary
after all. But when we drove further up the Park Loop Road
in Acadia National Park, the same group of islands drifted
apart before my eyes. Soon they were totally separate
entities, unaligned, and with significant distance between
them. They reminded me of the breaches that occur in
families.
A man I know became an island. An unfortunate incident
caused him to separate from the mainland-his family-and
become a separate unit. In that situation, the distance was
dramatic and definite. No matter what angle he was viewed
from, his being never touched the mainland. When family
members tried to reach him, they had to brave rough seas
and a rocky, unwelcoming coastline. Soon, they gave up and
accepted that the island was not forgiving enough to allow
them to reach it. Even the terminal illness and eventual
death of his parent could not make him build a bridge or
allow a rowboat to land on his shore to help him come home.
He was an island, cut off from the mainland.
The circumstances that caused his separation were serious.
His trust was betrayed. The things he holds most precious
were endangered. His defenses went up and he built a moat
around himself for protection. As time passed, life's
storms washed away the shorelines of both the mainland and
his island. The distance grew wider. Bitterness became
boulders that were hurled at the other, creating another
barrier that made it difficult to leave or enter both the
mainland and island. Both were soon trapped where they
were. They could look across the distance at each other,
but there was no way to reach the other without Herculean
efforts.
Occasionally someone would jump out onto a boulder and call
to the island. The distance was too great, though. The
thundering sound of waves crashing on the rocks drowned out
the calls. The gale force winds blew the words out to sea.
The man was not looking or listening for those pleas.
Finally giving up, the person retreated, heaving another
boulder into the sea as he walked away.
Occasionally on a day with gentle breezes and calm seas,
the man would remember his family. He walked down to the
beach and longed for home. He climbed out onto a boulder
and waved. He called the names of his parents, siblings,
and friends. He watched the activity on the mainland.
Everyone was busy. They were living their lives-without
him. He stood that way for long minutes, watching. Hoping
someone would turn and look in his direction. But no one
ever did. So he turned, walked away, and dropped a boulder
into the sea.
I wish I knew that the story would have a happy ending, but
I don't. In some ways the hurt feelings seem to cut deeper
each day rather than healing with the passage of time.
Perhaps the stinging salty seawater keeps the wounds fresh
and raw. Perhaps the muscles pulled when hefting boulders
replaced the original injuries and the people involved
don't recognize the difference. Time, wind and water eroded
my hope that these family members would be reunited.
Then I learned about Bar Island, a tiny island off the
coast of Bar Harbor, Maine. Twice each day when the ocean's
tide has ebbed, a natural gravel bridge appears. It is
accessible for only a short time, but during that period,
people can walk between the mainland and the island.
I realized that perhaps my friend and his family needed to
find the sand bar that still connected them. Perhaps if
they watched the tide, they would discover that they didn't
need to build a complicated bridge or risk having a boat
smashed against the rocks in order to become a family
again. Perhaps they just needed to watch and wait. Then,
when the tide was out, they could take a deep breath and
walk back into each other's lives.
Sometimes it doesn't matter whether we are on the island or
the mainland. It doesn't matter if we stepped away from the
family or let a family member step away from us. The
healing power of time only works if we let acceptance
replace the pain. Acceptance that other people have values
different from our own. Acceptance that other people react
differently than we do in unusual situations. Acceptance
that both sides can be right and wrong about the same
controversial issue.
My friend lives on an island. His family lives on the
mainland. The pull of bitterness, anger, and hurt affect
the tide just as the moon affects the ocean tides. But if
the moon was locked in one place, where only high tide is
experienced, the gravel bridge between Bar Island and the
mainland would never be uncovered. The connection would
never be seen or used. Acceptance of each other is the moon
that controls the tides in our lives. When we offer
acceptance freely, the moon continues to travel in its
orbit. The tides rise and fall. We experience separation
and togetherness, while being true to our own unique
natures.
We are all individuals. We are all islands. Islands close
to each other make families and friends. Sometimes we
appear to be very close to each other, other times we seem
distant. But beneath the waters that surround us, gravel
bridges connect us. We control the tides with our
willingness to accept other people as they are. Open,
unconditional acceptance holds the moon in the place where
the tide stays lowest. The natural bridge is never covered.
We can freely walk or run to meet each other. We are
islands with access to the resources and benefits of the
mainland. We are islands in a chain of islands. We are part
of a family.
~~~
Copyright 2002 by Donna Doyon. All rights reserved. You are free to
use material from the A Swan's Song eZine in whole or in part,
as long as you include complete attribution, including live web
site link. Please also notify me where the material will appear.
The attribution should read:
"By Donna Doyon. Please visit Donna's
web site at http://www.donnadoyon.com for additional stories and articles on improving relationships with yourself, your family and the other people in your world."
"Carefree Woman" artwork by Ann Boyajian
|
