I went to the ocean the other day. It was cold, windy, and perfect for that deep, cleansing stillness I love. Walking along the shoreline isn’t just exercise for me; it’s a way to notice Life itself. I wanted to feel and connect with the elemental rhythm of the water, to listen to what it might have to say.
I always gravitate toward the Edge, the place where sand meets sea. I want to get close enough to feel the pulse of the water, but on this day, I also had a small, practical goal:
I really didn’t want my feet to get wet!
Sound familiar? Much of life is like that. We want the full, messy, unfiltered experience, but we also want to stay safe, dry, and comfortable. We try to be open to whatever arises, but only so long as it doesn’t inconvenience us...
So there I was, calculating. Watching the last wet line in the sand, trying to predict the reach of the next wave. Measuring, judging, plotting. My mind was doing its important, serious job. But the ocean…the actual, living, moving ocean… does not follow the data from the last wave. It comes when it comes, how it comes.
Prediction is useful. It’s efficient. It keeps us alive and functioning. It’s how we know how to dress for the weather forecasted for tomorrow. Or that we should make that special cheesy lasagna we know our friend loves when they’re coming over for dinner. That’s functional thought. But the mind takes that same tool and tries to apply it to feelings, to life, and to the wild, unpredictable flow of experience. We start thinking we can control the waves of life, predict exactly when we’ll feel upset or at peace, and then… SURPRISE! We can’t.
Here is the trick: we are always experiencing the Now, but often with a helmet of yesterday’s assumptions. We trust our predictions more than the moment standing right in front of us. And when Life comes up the beach differently than we calculated, when the wave reaches further than our dry spot, we argue. We resist. We stomp our metaphorical feet and yell, “This shouldn’t be happening!” And that is where true suffering comes from. Not the wet feet. Not the cold. The suffering comes from arguing with what is.
That day, the wave reached my dry zone. I simply stopped, looked down at my cold, wet feet, and laughed. A loud, ridiculous, uproarious laugh at the sheer inevitability of it all... at the fact that walking right at the edge of the ocean almost always comes with wet feet. Where was that prediction when I needed it?!
That laughter was acceptance. I wasn’t trying to change the wave, fix my feet, or control the experience. I simply noticed what was. Surrendered. Flowed. Thanked the water for playing with me.
The lesson (if there is one) isn’t to stop predicting useful things; please, keep checking the weather! The lesson is to stop clinging to predictions as if they are reality. You can’t know what will happen until it actually happens. When the wave comes, you have a choice: argue or accept.
Pause.
Notice.
Listen.
Feel what is happening in your body without judgment.
The quiet hum of life is always beneath the surface, always floating you. And sometimes the only right response is a deep breath or a good laugh at the messy, beautiful fact that your feet are wet.