Turbulence on the Lagoon

The waters on the surface of the lagoon have been turbulent with change for some time now. My stable little lily pad has been buffeted about by the wind, whose true direction is not always clear. 


Over time, I've been learning about my options for navigating these choppy, unpredictable waters.


I can stay exactly where I am and do nothing. This option may leave me feeling more like a victim of change than a beneficiary, but it really depends on the situation and what I want to get out of it. Sometimes, steering clear of the drama and staying focused on what I can control is a good strategy; it may not work best as a sole strategy, though, particularly if the change is significant.


I can ride the waves of change to a potentially unknown shore, seeking to understand what it means, why it's happening and where I fit, adapting myself accordingly. Long-term survival of any kind generally requires adaptability, and if I can get okay with the "not knowing" piece, there's power in being a participant -- of partaking in the change based on my own goals, needs and desires - rather than having it imposed upon me. 


I can take cover until the storm blows over. This may work well as a short-term strategy, but my gut tells me that while this "storm" may subside periodically, it may never truly end. The amount and frequency of change in our world is ramping up, with no signs of abatement. It's probably a good idea to seek shelter when the lightening is striking or the hail is flying, but I want a vantage point that allows me to observe the activity from a safe distance. Eventually, the intensity will pass and when I emerge, I'd like to have some idea of how the landscape may have changed and whether or how my well-being will depend upon my ability to navigate the new terrain. 


I can recede to the depths beneath the surface where, if I go deep enough, I can enjoy some semblance of stillness until the turbulence above subsides. Significant turbulence is a visceral experience that tends to engage most, if not all of the senses. If prolonged, it can be draining - physically, psychically, emotionally - even for die-hard adventure seekers. Retreating to the depths, to a place of stillness, can be both restorative and a means by which to glean hidden wisdom, such as that which dreams or meditation can bring. It's also a great time to explore whether or how change is occuring within myself at deeper levels than can be seen on the surface. 


I can engage with others "in the neighborhood." While my little lily pad can be a place of solitude and peace, the lagoon is a thriving community. In times of turbulence, I can reach out to my fellow dwellers to share my thoughts on what's happening and to get theirs, in hopes of broadening my perspective, expanding my options, creating alliances, gaining support and of course, reinforcing that I am not, ever, truly alone. 


Finally, I can practice some or all of these tactics in combination, depending on the nature of the circumstances and changes around me.  


Regardless of the tactic(s), I'm finding it's a good idea to check in with myself regularly to see how I'm feeling about the change (fearful, excited, hopeful, resistant, indifferent, etc.) and whether I have opportunity to better understand potential outcomes, my own desires, and how I can participate in the change. I also know that black and white thinking is probably not my ally in adaptability, so staying attuned to multiple options, to living "in the grey" is important, too. And if I get stuck, I can ask for help.