It was only one line in the entire talk. But as soon as it hit the air I knew I would remember.

 

"The tide of disappointment goes out, and the tide of gratitude comes in."

 

I do have a stunted relationship with the beach, from a string of childhood operations on my ears that came with instructions not to swim. I watched from the sand, and never regained trust. But I have deep memories of what it looks like when the waters recede, leaving slippery rocks and vulnerable marine life. Then the capricious ocean changes her mind and rolls back in, twelve hours later, diluting everything with frothy waves. 

 

Sailors count on it. Schools of fish understand it, without extraneous words. Tides slide in and out with a regularity that is dependable. I think it has to do with the moon, which is remarkable considering the distance between. 

 

There are pulses of defeat that rise within me, when an anticipated outcome floats away, or a beloved dream drowns. But pondering that precarious line between land and sea, I am reminded that the margin wavers. If I allow the disappointment to retreat, it readies me for thankfulness to rush in. 

 

A woman told me that she and her friend made a pact. Each morning they would leave a message on one another's phone, articulating specific points of gratitude. They knew not to answer the call, but to listen to the recording later. The practice continued for seventeen years. 

 

A book by Anne Voskamp made a lasting impression on me. Checking on my purchase history I see that I've bought it three times. Anne elected to keep a journal of thankfulness, aiming for a thousand entries. What happened is transformative for her and the waves of women who come to hear her speak. 

 

Seeing these ebbs and flows helps me to be receptive to blessings, not catching a wave upon the sand like Maria von Trapp never could, but splashing in the present moment.