low tide // high tide
low tide//
Off the Normandy coast of France, there is a wonderful island that has captured my heart for many years.
Mont-Saint-Michel’s medieval abbey dwells on the horizon between Earth and sky— like an architectural mountain piercing a void, at the mouth of the Couesnon River near Avranche. I long to go one day to see it in person and it is near the top of my list. The island is such a magnificent and unusual place. In prehistoric times, the mount was dry land, but over time erosion chipped away at it until it was no longer landlocked. Made of leucogranite that is over 525 million years old, the island has unique geological features that are rarities in our world. The monastery itself was originally constructed in the 6th century. Before this, in the 5th century, the island was called “Mont-Tombe” —which quite literally means “Mount Tomb.” (Ominous much?) It served as a center of Gallo-Roman culture for hundreds of years.
Interestingly, its origin story began in 708 CE with Aubert of Avranches, a bishop of Normandy, who claimed he was visited by the chief of the celestial military— Archangel Michael. He was compelled to build a sanctuary, and this was the beginning of what would become an abbey, a wartime stronghold, and —unsurprisingly—a prison. Looking beyond its fairytale aesthetic, there is something extremely powerful about the Romanesque architecture and stark contrast against the landscape surrounding it.
During extremely low tides, one would often go on a pilgrimage to the commune and could walk across the washes with ease— which might sometimes prove to be dangerous or deadly if the tides came in unexpectedly. It was oft nicknamed “St. Michael in Peril of the Sea” for good reason. During the Hundred Years’ War, its location rendered it unconquerable— it was un-besieged—- twice, in fact. The tides are, conversely, the highest at this point in France as well, with a variance of roughly 46 feet (14 meters) from low to high markers, and every eighteen years or so it experiences a “supertide.” Given all of this, it is impressive that the commune still stands today.
I look at Mont-Saint-Michel as a lesson in patience. Sometimes our lives ebb and flow and we find ourselves to be in a low tide state— the world is dry, the sands are harsh, and sometimes nature can be unyielding and unforgiving. But if it were not for a low tide, would we miss out on the beauty beneath the surface? Fate happens at its own pace, and the rhythmic cycle of existence seems to carry us in states that are changeable and unpredictable. When we look helplessly at the tide coming in, it is easy to see that there are stronger forces far beyond ourselves that push us and pull us. They mold and shape our malleable forms if only to make us more whole.
Spiritually-speaking, what comes to mind when you think of a “low tide?” It sounds kind of like it would be a negative thing, right? In some ways it can be. Low tides in our lives force us to take pause and really evaluate where we are at. Who do we want to be? Where do we want to go from here? What steps will it take to get there? Because we know the tide will shift again, flowing as it always does from low to high ad infinitem, we can find some comfort in the fact that a low tide state is not forever. It is a matter of timing, of pause and reflection, and of preparation. Because once the tide is coming in, we will find ourselves running at a breakneck pace on that dry land as the tide comes rushing in.
In 2007, I flew out to Oregon with my then-husband. We spent a week in Portland—hiking, taking in the sights, running our booth at Crafty Wonderland, look for an apartment/jobs, etc. It was a whirlwind trip, but one day we drove our rental car on the Sunset Highway and headed to the coast. That trip I had two goals: to see the ocean and to see the desert. As we drove along, the landscape shifted and convulsed from towering douglas fir old growth forests to wide chasms and valley that seemed to stretch up toward the heavens (and we saw, ironically, the nastiest roadside gas station bathroom I have ever seen in my entire life.)
We went to Seaside, Oregon first, and I remember sitting on the shoreline drinking a warm cup of chai and eating a lox bagel. I had the epiphany then, staring out at the deep blue Pacific, that my husband and I were reaching the end of our journey together. It was a fleeting unwanted thought that left as soon as it arrived nearly, but I recognized it and felt an unfamiliar sense of acceptance and loss. It was the first of a long string of impermanent things in my life, all leading me wherever I was supposed to be. It was also one of the first times I really trusted my gut/intuition to steer me in the right direction. That day felt like a right of passage— like I was closing a book on my youth and was forever changed by it. Within months after we returned from the trip, our paths would diverge. We never made it to the out to desert as I had hoped, but we did make it to the Pacific ocean. I would, over a decade later, reach the desert on my own.
We went to Cannon Beach and there was a group of marine biology students tittering excitedly around a tide pool. The tide was low and when I peered into the rocky crevices I was surprised to see the abundance of life inches underneath the surface— anemones, starfish, and everything in between. It was a subtle reminder to look into the depths to gain the most clarity. Sometimes we tend to dwell superficially on the surface and miss out on so many good things purely out of fear looking into the depths of our souls. It is a good lesson in resilience. The anemone below the waves was not afraid of the coming tide, so why should I be?
We would later drive up the coast to a still very Goonies-era Astoria (“One of us! One of us!”) and to Mount St. Helens where surprisingly aggressive elk almost pushed our car off of a high one-lane bridge into the lava flows hundreds of feet below. Out of all of the days of my life, that one is one that has stayed with me. The trip was a marked transition— it was a kiss goodbye in the purest sense as I said goodbye to what I thought my life would be and saw that I would need to move into the next phase. It was the day I felt like the life I have now truly began. It was also the day I thought buying an old ghost town in the dry lands of Eastern Oregon and it “Organ, Oregon” would be a bomb-ass idea (Still is!)
”Low tide” is also a celebration. It is a celebration of what is hidden— especially that which is hidden from ourselves— so that we potentially have the opportunity to grow and evolve into something new. When I think about the tidal shifts at Mont-Saint-Michel, I think about not only the resilience of the abbey against all of the elements, but also the fact that low tides allow us opportunities for journeys. If the tide was high, we would not be able to pass into new territories of ourselves (not without a boat at least.) In this way, the low points of our lives can inherently be gifts. It can be a simple reminder that we are capable of so much more, and that capacity is only contingent on the limitations we give ourselves. If there are no limits, anything is possible. If there are no roads, it is an opportunity to carve a unique path.
Yet, alternately, it also teaches us about the importance of living in the present. That this current state we are in— this moment— is all there is. Those footprints we leave on the sand dissolve in an instant as the tides comes in. It is important to find ways to leave behind relics of who were are for those who come after us, while also not being attached to any particular outcomes. Just like the tides ebb and flow, so too does our existence and time here. It is important to make every moment count and do all the things— even if they are hard sometimes.
high tide//
It was around 1997 or so— I was almost twelve years old then. Every summer we would make our way down from Tennessee in the middle of the night on what would be an 8+ hour trip toward Clearwater, Florida, where much of our family was. My sister and I would doze in the back seat most of the way, the sounds of Foreigner and Fleetwood Mac filtering in and out of our consciousness from the car radio as my parents quietly conversed about life. The smell of black Folgers coffee from a metal thermos and cigarettes with permeate the air, mixed with salty humidity as we made our way closer to the coast. I always hated driving through Georgia, which seemed to be an endless state of nothing (change my mind!) I would lean my head against the cool glass of the car window and squint up at the starry sky. I would dream of nebulas and palm trees as I watched the lights of cars float past in an endless sea of darkness.
We rented a beach house at Redington Shores nearly every year, which surprisingly still stands today despite a horrible renovation and many hurricanes over the years. It was a small 1950s house, renovated in the late 1970s, with the Floor-is-Lava red-orange shag carpet full of sand spurs (Surprise!) and a decrepit, severely-out-of-tune upright piano that I dearly loved. It was only a few houses down from the beach access and being a water sign it was very hard to keep me away from the Gulf. Our summers were idyllic and magical. I would “capture” lizards, play piano as much as humanly possible, and generally explore the yard. I would watch Pop Up Video and listen to garage bands on public access radio. Bird Sanctuaries, John’s Pass, beach golf, horseshoe crabs at Philippe Park, flea markets, Pappa’s avgolemono soup, 1950s shell shops, Sunshine Skyway, Greek Sponge Docks..so many memories of my childhood were there.
The Gulf is very different from other ocean areas I have been to since. It was a much calmer, more familiar place. I haven’t been back to the Gulf since my early 20’s (I’ll be 39 this year, which is another insane thing to think about.) I haven’t been back to Clearwater since I was 15. But the Gulf has always had its hold on me historically.
I learned much about how the tides worked from an early age. My family and I would spend ever moment possible on the sand or in the waves. I never thought about rip tides, or sharks, or any dangers then. I don’t remember worrying about these things and it had an almost instinctual respect for the sea. Just like the desert, the sea is also a place where I feel peaceful and comfortable.
The tide was high that day. I was in deeper water, as a result, but still tall enough for me to stand on a sandbar (it was not too deep anyway, since I am short—I knew my limits even then.) My parents were closer to the beach. I normally didn’t swim quite that far out by myself , but I had been eager to look for shells on the sandbar before the tide fully came in.
“Taylor! Don’t move! Stay still!” My mother yelled, a slight panic in her voice (which was very uncharacteristic as she is the bravest soul I know and not easily fussed by anything.) It was then that I could feel their fins against my arms— one after the next— a sea of probably a hundred stingrays swimming with me standing in the middle of them.
I stood still as she had asked me to— and was surprisingly unafraid. I was, instead, in awe from how beautiful and otherworldly the rays were. Had the tide not been high that day, and had I not been in that place and moment, I would not have seen or experienced something so beautiful. Where I should have felt fear, I felt peace. What should have been a moment of panic was instead one of those joyful memories I would carry with me. It was a literal “high tide” moment.
High tides are all about trusting the process and celebrating the tiny victories. When the tide is high, we have an abundance of opportunity as we gain more understanding in how we can use the lessons from the lower tides that came before. If the low tides are where we are naked and most vulnerable, the high tides are we can float above discomfort and transcend the state of being immersed in chaos. High tides mean that we must experience the juxtaposition of feeling both fundamentally exposed and fully engulfed in something much more powerful than us. Being in a state of high tide takes even more courage than low tide, for in high tide you have to relinquish control and learn to go with the flow.
Winston Churchill, in his historic speech to the U.S. Congress in 1941, said the following, “Sure I am that this day – now we are the masters of our fate; that the task which has been set us is not above our strength; that its pangs and toils are not beyond our endurance. As long as we have faith in our cause and an unconquerable will-power, salvation will not be denied us.” It is a loose but powerful reference to Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar, in which Cassius says, “Men at some time are masters of their fates; The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”
High tide “seasons” cause us to ultimately decide what is biologically and physiologically programmed within us and what our role is in directing our lives. It is an age-old question—do we steer the ship or does the ship steer us? They cause us to examine our inclinations and drives and take accountability for what is within the scope of our control. When we can look at our lives as a sequence of events in which we gain increasing mastery over ourselves, we start to gain clarity on how our failing impact others and how to remedy that in the future.
In the grand scheme of things, we are small and insignificant. The world will continue to turn, time will not stop, and we will eventually be forgotten by time and distance no matter what we accomplished while we are here. It is a very select few who are remembered for their accomplishments, and even then such longevity is not guaranteed. It is a sobering realization that our existence is so transient, but real freedom begins when you embrace the impermanence of living and operate with a sense of urgency to live a life well-lived. I always joke that we likely live in a simulation, but I think a more rational ideology is that our true control over our lives is substantially limited. We can choose to fight against the currents— or we can choose to let the water wash over us and let our path unfold naturally. There is nothing wrong with either method— each carries merit.
We can choose to fade into obscurity and have the water erode us to our very framework, or we can take a lesson from Mont-Saint-Michel and rise above the tides evermore.
