Five years ago, something in me cracked and change began forcing its way in. I had experienced this unsettling feeling before and knew I didn’t have a choice — some sort of transition had begun. This time around I knew what I didn’t want (not this career, not this city) but I had no idea what I did want. I felt a lot of shame around this. The part of me that always seemed to have the next thing in mind no longer appeared to be operating. So for several months I did nothing. And then, finally, something happened.

An unexpected question

Unbeknownst to me, my partner had been watching a lot of YouTube videos about people sailing around the world. One day he said, “What if we did this?” And in that moment a voice deep in me said, Yes. Expansiveness. Quiet. Solitude. More being, less doing. Yes.

Of course, within a few days, the planner part of me had kicked back in and I was overwhelmed with doubts and fear: I knew nothing about boats. I had never been remotely interested in travelling by boat let alone living on one. None of this was my idea. I had suddenly become the woman who just… follows a man. The shame deepened.

The only solace I found was in this thought: It’s not like I have a better idea.

I no longer had time or energy to feel sorry for myself and had no choice but to learn. Little by little, the gifts of living at sea began to reveal themselves.
‍

The gifts of living at sea 

A year later, having given away most of our stuff, we moved onto a 42-foot sailboat. The steep learning curve of how to live on, sail, operate and repair a boat engulfed us. I no longer had time or energy to feel sorry for myself and had no choice but to learn. Little by little, the gifts of living at sea began to reveal themselves. 

First, time slowed way down. So many of life’s conveniences were gone. Laundry in the marina took half a morning, groceries took hours and our transportation was dependent on weather. Onboard, in our small space, we moved slowly and carefully and my spatial awareness grew. And, with no ability to hurry or rush, a sense of presence began to take hold.

Second, living essentially in a Tiny Home meant we only owned what was necessary. For example, I knew every item of clothing in my four small drawers. With less stuff came fewer decisions and I noticed how much I relished the simplicity of boat life.

Third, living largely outdoors was also a revelation. Netflix was replaced with “Boat TV:” cormorants drying their wings, seals exhaling, the wind howling past our mast in a storm, the soft slap slap of the water at anchor. My world expanded.

‍

Lessons in surrender

Though my life situation was totally different, the old me had hitched a ride. My journals from this time are full of guilt and despair that I had “abandoned” my company, that I had “given up,” that I was “wasting my life,” that “I was dying” and questioning “what was the point of any of this.” I was convinced that I was supposed to come up with “my next thing” like another business or another book or even another career — or at least some sort of volunteer position. I was only fifty, surely I was too young to be through all the “doing” and into all this “being.” But again, just like saying yes to the boat, I didn’t have a better idea than learning how to be.

To better understand my feelings, I turned to books. A book about a hermit led to Thomas Merton, Richard Rohr, the Tao, The Upanishads, Ekhardt Tolle, CS Lewis, The Gospels, Sue Monk Kidd, Augustine, Christian Mystics and A Course in Miracles. These books brought me such sweet relief. They not only gave me the permission “to simply be” — permission I realized I was so desperately looking for — they also gave me the encouragement to stick with it and go deeper. 

No matter the spiritual tradition, everyone seemed to be saying the same thing: let go. Surrender.

No matter the spiritual tradition, everyone seemed to be saying the same thing: let go. Surrender. Die before you die. Allow the self to succumb to the Self. But how to do this? And again, they all seemed to agree: Trust. Have faith and know that if I was clear in my intention to continue to let go, the path would make itself apparent. 

New wine, new wineskin

My lived experience on the boat supported what I was reading, and the metaphor of the wineskin became a touchstone for me: new wine cannot be poured into an old wineskin. I began to see that as painful as it was to turn away from my ego pleading with me to do something, I was being pulled by something deeper that I couldn’t, and didn’t want to, explain. I remembered that five years earlier I had felt a push out of my old life but had never felt a pull. Maybe it was there all along, hiding in plain sight, I just didn’t know to look for it.

I still get flummoxed when people ask me “what I do” or worse, “what I do with myself all day.”

I still get flummoxed when people ask me “what I do” or worse, “what I do with myself all day.” I can’t tell them that remembering to stay present and learning to listen to the quiet, still voice rather than the demanding, protesting ego feels like a full-time job. Most of my days feel rich and full and I say yes to most anything that comes my way. In this slow, simple life, decisions seem to make themselves. I am so grateful that my partner suggested we move onto a boat. And it couldn’t have been any other way. There were no better ideas.

‍