Life isn’t nearly as stable as we want it to be . . .

There’s something to be said about the beach. About the sun, the sand, the tide, the pure joy it brings to families- young and old, traditional and adopted. There’s also something to be said about the people you meet on the beach during the “walking” times- early in the morning and late in the afternoon when there are no people laying out or playing in the water. The people that walk the beach are the most remarkable. Generativity is the word to best describe it. Everyone enjoys the solemn sounds of the ocean, lost in their own thoughts and personal meditations, yet everyone manages to smile with a friendly hello to the next passer-by. If you’re lucky, you’ll stop and share stories. It’s incredible. Complete strangers share their stories- where they’re from, what they’re doing, and what they’re expectations are.

Today’s lesson is not about the sun, the sand, the people or their stories. It is about perfection. About conformity and expectations. This story, life lesson, whatever you call it, is about life and the beach. A metaphor, if you please. This morning, it occurred to me that I lost one of my best friends. When we parted ways to go to college, we knew our long distance friendship would be hard, but a year and a half later, I hadn’t expected the sudden change. It was scary. It is hard to lose a friendship of over six years, but it was a long time coming. Within seconds, the walls came crashing down. Not only had I lost my best friend- my maid of honor- my lifesaver… I had lost my sister. In a tizzy, I immediately leaned on my closest friend from school, telling her via text message, that I didn’t deserve her and that she needed someone better. I was convinced I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t up to par, and she didn’t deserve to be dragged down. I like to call it my built-in defense mechanism. Whenever it gets scary, I shove away- pushing even the people that matter the most in my life, the people I love and care about the most included.

That afternoon, I took a long walk on the beach with my mom collecting seashells. It wasn’t until we were a few hundred yards away from our resort that I noticed what we were doing. The two of us were scowling over these washed us seashells, picking through to find the most perfect ones. We didn’t want the broken ones or the ones weren’t magnificently colored. I looked down at the shells in my hand- all golden colored and perfectly shaped. I looked over at my mom’s hand, which held the same type of shell, but in a variety of shapes and colors. Already emotionally drained, I got to thinking. My mom defies the laws of conformity- she always has and she always will. She’s not a rebel in any means- she got her college degree, then her masters, has a respectable job, and does the kinwork so our family stays together. But her lifestyle isn’t perfect, and I’m sure if she could go back she’d change a lot of it.

I felt so guilty about the seashells that I dropped them all and started again- and the pattern continued. I sought out the golden, perfectly shaped shells. Maybe this is how people are, I remember thinking. There’s something greater than us- a force of some sort- that puts the perfect people together. Everyone wants to be picked. That’s why we try so hard. That’s why women of all ages wake up hours before they need to be anywhere to beautify them. That’s why sorority girls try so hard. That’s why tweens sit and worship their older sisters. We want to be the same because we don’t want to be left behind. There is that except though- there is always the rare beauty. For that day on the beach, there were two rare beauties- a pure white shell that glistened like a shiny pearl and a salmon-colored gleaming mother of pearl.

In life, there are exceptions. There are those people that defy odds- the beautiful blond that is incredibly smart and witty or the teddy-bear guy that is nothing all that special but still has everyone flocking to him. And then there are the “Rocks.” The people that are always the ones people go to and lean on. These people must be rocks- they must take in everything told to them and never show emotion. Rocks must never lean on anyone else because if the Rock moves, there is a domino effect. Being a Rock is a curse. Even worse are the Rocks that are compassionate and take on others’ burdens as their own. I am a Rock. My mother is a Rock. I guess we’re both cursed. We never talk about it, and we’re not emotional towards each other. I’ve never seen my mom cry, and likewise, she’s never seen me cry. We’ve never talked about it and we never lean on each other- yet we both know. Call it a mother-daughter connection, but we both know when we need each other. It’s something unspoken and unexplainable.

That day on the beach, we both knew that neither of us was in a good place. My mom lingered near the incoming tides. The swells were well over three feet, yet we braved it in search of something. My mom looked for the odd-ball shells. Her favorite were the dark ones. She said they were mysterious. I was in search of a perfect white shell- my shining pearl of a shell. My mom turned around suddenly and looked at me. I thought she wanted to turn back. It was well past dinnertime and neither of us had eaten all day. When I inquired, she told me to look for a big shell. She wanted one that stood out from the rest. I asked her why, and she responded, “Because I want something special.” And at that very moment, I knew my mom wanted perfection too.

There’s a lot to say about perfection. You can blame eating disorders, psychological diseases, and a whole slue of other things on it. For me, perfection is in grades, appearances, and lifestyles. My room at school is always clean- my books are always aligned, my bed always made, and my face always plastered with a fake smile. Perfection, for me, is getting A’s in my classes and always being there for my friends. Never once had I put myself ahead of anyone else, and it’s finally starting to take a toll on me. Perfection, on the other hand, for my mom is completely different. It’s about being strong and going against the odds. This was set in stone for her the day I was born- when she became a single parent.

Perfection is something type “A” personalities always strive for- but it’s also something Rocks need to master. Perfection, for Rocks, is always being there so someone always has something to lean on. But what happens when the Rock can’t endure anymore? Rocks, too, fall to little pieces once in a great while. My best friend is not a Rock. I am her Rock, and now she has replaced me with a new Rock. Shit happens. I knew it would come sooner or later, and even though nothing happens when someone stands up from a Rock- the Rock has done her job and is useless until a new person needs a post to lean on. I have done my job and been left behind, only living as a mere memory- a faint shadow- if I’m lucky.

However, this is where my newest friend comes in. She is a Rock too. She has always been a Rock and will always be a Rock. It’s amazing when two Rocks find each other. Even if we’re both too stubborn to lean on each other for the sole reason that we are Rocks, it’s nice to have the company. I am a used up Rock. I have nothing left to support anyone- not even myself. So what happens when a Rock crumbles into pieces? Nothing. It ceases to exist. A new Rock comes along. The old Rock is forgotten. But there’s something that’s keeping me together.

My friend, my Rock, is my glue. She’s holding me together. I have no idea why. I can’t believe she’s actually here. And as much as I tell her I’m fine, she doesn’t believe me ever- and rightly so. She is my Rock, and somehow she always insists I am hers. Is it possible that two Rocks can be Rocks for each other? I sure hope it’s possible because it’s happening. I love my Rock. She is my shining star. She is my light at the end of a long, long dark tunnel. I appreciate her so much, and I know I can never repay her- not with words, presents, or actions. Maybe Rocks are meant to find each other. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe Rocks aren’t like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. I don’t know. I am still trying to figure it out for my self. Perfectionists, and Rocks, hate the unknown. Everything that used to be black and white is gray all of the sudden- and all I’m left with is a poem I once heard. It is so true of our friendship, it almost makes me think it was written for us. “I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.”