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Drops in the Ocean

My teacher Kavi Yogiraj Alan Finger explains quite beautifully that we, in our essence, are an indistinguishable part of divine intelligence; much like a drop of water is distinct from, and yet a part of, the ocean.

Just a few weeks ago my mom graciously hosted Thanksgiving at the Jersey Shore. I have always loved being near the water and often now refer back to the metaphor from my teacher with much gratitude and comfort.

The Cape Cod in which my sister and I spent our summers growing up was destroyed October 29, 2012 in Hurricane Sandy.

The house sat for weeks before we were able to enter. My husband and I tore out carpets, trying to empty everything we could from the first floor during the first weekend we were allowed on the island in November of 2012.   My father and mother originally were going to just have the first floor redone, so it had been stripped down to the studs.

But my father was not comfortable with the decision.  He felt there was just too much risk of mold on the second floor and was concerned about electrical issues.

The beach is only a few blocks away, where we spent many hours as children with my dad looking for shells, and sand crabs to scare my mom. A year earlier I would have fought the decision to tear down our family Cape Cod. It’s humble frame held so many memories.

But my father at this time was going through aggressive chemo and radiation treatments. A few months earlier in August he was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer of the esophagus that had spread to his brain. By the Thanksgiving immediately after Sandy he was extremely ill from treatments.  

This year, 3 years later, I helped my mom prepare for Thanksgiving in the house she and my dad rebuilt. My husband and I were there, along with my in-laws, my sister and her husband, and my two year old nephew.

We miss my dad, and we celebrate him there. His work on earth was done a few months before my nephew was born and the new house was complete.  

The Cape Cod that held so many memories is no longer there. The body that clothed my dad’s spirit is no longer here.  I still grieve for the physical, but my father’s journey helped teach me that those things are just containers for something greater.  (Thank you, Dad.)

I’m grateful that I can walk the beach as we did so many times together. I’m grateful for this image of you back with source, your drop now back in the ocean. I’m grateful for all the time we had here together.