My kids and I (yeah, my wife, too) were camping this last weekend at a great campground with several beaches walking distance from the tent. There were tsunami signs on all the major roads. My youngest looked at those and instantly worried. "We can never camp directly on the beach," he said firmly. "There's no way you could get out of your tent if a tsunami came." He talked about how high the waves would be, how they would consume everything around, and his eyes drifted to those roads heading uphill as though they were some kind of salvation.
I didn't say this exactly to him, but I think he's beginning to understand it anyway. Some waves are going to hit no matter what you do. There's no amount of hill-climbing that will save you from that impact. So we stand on the beach today and revel in its beauty, in the warm sunshine, in the salty breeze, and we acknowledge that living life out loud means taking risks.
As I was writing this piece, I realized the tsunami was the perfect metaphor for grief, so I went with it. I can imagine your youngest wrapping their head around the concept of the most massive wave coming for the coast. Those waves start from so far away and there's no stopping them.
Funny (and off-topic) story: when I lived in San Diego-about 23 years ago, there must have been an earthquake off Hawaii because a tsunami warning had been issued. I was working at a hotel near sea world, so basically next door to the ocean. In classic mom fashion, my mom said to me "now honey, make sure you park your car facing AWAY from the ocean" to which I said "yes, mom, but I'm still need to back out of the parking space".
My kids and I (yeah, my wife, too) were camping this last weekend at a great campground with several beaches walking distance from the tent. There were tsunami signs on all the major roads. My youngest looked at those and instantly worried. "We can never camp directly on the beach," he said firmly. "There's no way you could get out of your tent if a tsunami came." He talked about how high the waves would be, how they would consume everything around, and his eyes drifted to those roads heading uphill as though they were some kind of salvation.
I didn't say this exactly to him, but I think he's beginning to understand it anyway. Some waves are going to hit no matter what you do. There's no amount of hill-climbing that will save you from that impact. So we stand on the beach today and revel in its beauty, in the warm sunshine, in the salty breeze, and we acknowledge that living life out loud means taking risks.
As I was writing this piece, I realized the tsunami was the perfect metaphor for grief, so I went with it. I can imagine your youngest wrapping their head around the concept of the most massive wave coming for the coast. Those waves start from so far away and there's no stopping them.
Funny (and off-topic) story: when I lived in San Diego-about 23 years ago, there must have been an earthquake off Hawaii because a tsunami warning had been issued. I was working at a hotel near sea world, so basically next door to the ocean. In classic mom fashion, my mom said to me "now honey, make sure you park your car facing AWAY from the ocean" to which I said "yes, mom, but I'm still need to back out of the parking space".
Oh wow, that one made me laugh pretty loud!! What epic advice. Thanks, mom!