An unseen teacher

My shallow breath rises from somewhere in my chest, small sips of air. I long for the deep drinks that satisfy– breaths coming long, slow and full from my belly. The breath is my first indicator of challenging times and I rarely know the source of the challenge. As if having dropped my oar in the water, the navigation is difficult.

Other cues arise, tears at the surface with no particular source, a pulling away when I most need others. I’m in a thin place, close to something deeper yet treading water.

The air of the larger world hums, it crackles, it swirls in so many directions moving, no, pushing, us here and there, without a sense of control. The truth is elusive, trust nonexistent, it’s hard to set our compass and move ahead.

In Alaska there is a river that runs 650 miles to the Bering Sea, providing a pathway for the largest salmon. Once a year, the elders of the Inuit community take their sons to the mouth of this river. They teach the young ones that if you watch closely enough you will see the largest salmon barely break the surface, barely leaving a wake. This slight break in the surface is known as the wake of an unseen teacher, and signals that the harvest may begin.

The deep ancestral wisdom of foundational stories, of recognizing our deep connection to the world, seems lost in the swirl of the day to day. The unseen teacher swims just below the surface, waiting for our attention. It is in the thinnest moments when I feel most disconnected, that it seems the teacher calls. Calls soft and low, calls for attention. I work to quiet my racing heart and mind and listen for the subtle notes of the teacher’s song. I find my breath. I pick up my oar.

With the smallest dips in the water, reaching out to connect and talk with a friend, putting pen to paper, taking the first steps of a task that feels overwhelming, I refamiliarize myself with the vessel that carries me. Tip of the oar in the water, I feel the full current of Grace surrounding me and point towards home.