Caught in the Swirling

I went on a whale watch off Cape Cod with some friends recently, and we saw the second largest mammal on the planet. 

Think about that: The second largest mammal on Earth!

Fin whales.

These whales are 60 to 80 feet long, weighing between 40 to 80 tons.

Despite shipping traffic—despite warming waters and devastation to our oceans—these whales just do their thing. Lunging through krill and dense schools of small fish, filtering out the seawater with baleen.

Surfacing and exhaling. 

And then diving deep again.

Like all cetaceans, these whales have to come to the surface to breathe. They hear the hum of propellers and motors. They get tangled in fishing lines. They get struck by ships and boats.

But they don’t despair. 

(Or at least I don’t think they do. I suppose the mama whales might worry about their calves like we do.)

They just do their thing. 

As the water warms, they simply move to colder currents. 

As the food supply shrinks and shifts, they follow it.
When was the last time you were fully present like that with whatever devastation is right in front of you, just doing the next right thing? 

I have been thinking of a powerful reflection question that I heard recently: How do we be in the world and yet not of the world?

There is a lot happening around us: politically, economically, ecologically, socially. The noise is constant and disturbing.

How do we exist in this world without being consumed by it?

How do we activate and yet not lose ourselves in the process?

I think about the whales. They certainly are in the world—they breathe the same air we do and live in the same ocean we appreciate—but they are not of the world. 

They are of another dimension.

Then I started thinking about all of our friends in the animal kingdom. 

My cat, for example, is almost 18 years old. His name is Kevin.

He’s about 88 in people years.

Kevin spends days moving around our house, chasing after sunshine that enters our windows. He meets us in the kitchen every morning, eager to lap up the liquid he can find in his wet food. He’s there again for lunch, anticipating treats we throw down the hall for him to chase after. At night, he curls up next to us in bed, body between ours, always purring. When we rest a hand on his back, he always licks our arm.

He is present with whatever comes in front of him.

Kevin, too, is in this world, but not of it.

I was aiming to be in the world and not of it when I went for a hike in the woods recently. I wanted to be with autumn before it turned. I walked between beech and maples and oak trees in their fiery clothes. I walked by the beaver dams and the deep brush where deer, fox, and moose like to hide out.

But in the middle of my walk, I received two texts: One from my son asking if I have any extra Hilton points, and one from my partner on his way to a tennis match.

I started noticing that the rivers were really low. I wondered if it was too low for the beavers to sustain their work.

I started thinking about climate change.

And then about a conversation with friends about how current shifts in federal funding and its systems may impact non-profits for a decade, maybe a generation.

I looked for the endangered blanding turtles on the rocks but didn’t find any. 

I felt sad for a friend who just lost her mother. 

I walked processing some deep emotion from several client sessions that day. 

And then, I started thinking about my very long to-do list and how I swore to no longer work on weekends. But to make it through a busy travel schedule the following week, I probably would need to.

Like my animal friends, I am in the same world. But unlike them, I am also of the world.

Where do you get most caught up in the swirling? 

What pulls you out of presence?

Do you worry about what jeans you have on or how your skin looks older? Do you worry about extra pounds you’re carrying or how much money is in the bank or who has more degrees than you or who has a nicer house or whether your work is meaningful enough?

One way to be in the world and not of it is to go outside.

I read a startling statistic this week: Americans spend 95% of our time inside. The average child spends only minutes a day outside—less than prisoners get.

To be in this world, walk barefoot on grass. Crunch leaves before they dissolve into winter muck. Feel dirt underneath your shoes and imagine when it will turn to snow. Go find a butterfly and follow it. Chew a wintergreen leaf and notice their realness—better than Lifesavers on your desk.

Notice what’s here. 

Right now.

Or this week, try this: Spend time just being present wherever you are. Stand in line somewhere without pulling out your phone. Observe something in the world and really take it in. When someone talks, just listen. 

Be like Kevin in the sunshine. 

Be like the whales, surfacing and diving.

We don’t have to get lost in all this swirling, all of the noise. Perhaps instead we can use it to find ourselves.

I believe we can be in this crazy world. And we don’t have to be of it.

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