Deep in a rip current of loneliness lately.

Growing up in California I spent a lot of time at the beach, body surfing with my dad on odd Saturdays or boogie boarding with my church group and there always seemed to be rip currents and no lifeguards on duty. They could grab hold of you and pull you far out to sea, so far you couldn't make it back in, so far you couldn't be seen, all of a sudden you'd become just two little hands unseen against the horizon. But we ignored the danger and went swimming all the time anyway. It wasn't that I was brave - I was and still am in many ways a fraidy cat, a poser that doesn't surf as I was often accurately called. But danger - we had no concept of it. It wasn't until I moved to the east coast and started swimming in the much more serene Atlantic that I realized just how treacherous the surf is in southern California - I've never been pounded under a wave standing taller than I do out here, I've never seen the brown swirl of sand and sediment that shows the strength of the pull back out to sea. At the Rockaways (where I hope to be on Friday) the many teen lifeguards blow their whistles aggressively at you as soon as the ocean water touches your chest, I'm constantly turning around and pointing to myself - me? You think I'm in danger? I can still touch the bottom! I've never almost died swimming out here but I feel like I almost died nearly every time I went to the beach as a kid, the cord of the boogie board taut against my wrist as I tried to swim back up to the surface, saltwater in my sinuses.

The phrase "swim parallel to the shore" is burned in my brain as what you're supposed to do if you're caught up in a rip tide, but I never understood - still don't, I guess - what you're supposed to do after that. Do you just swim until you escape? How do you know how to turn back to shore? How do you know you're clear of the gnarled grip of the underwater forces? The wikipedia article on rip currents (also called simply "rips" apparently) is really thorough. Apparently they kill 46 people a year in the United States, but from the 10 seconds I just spent reading about them they also seem not as dangerous as I was led to believe they were as an unlifeguarded child swimmer. Seems like if you stay calm and keep moving you'll probably be okay. Like so many things.

The loneliness I've been in the midst lately of is almost overwhelming, it's settled in and around me in a thick, wet fog, and like a rip tide I feel like it's carrying me physically, it's pulling me out to sea. I often feel lonely when I'm bored (which I have been especially lately), busy doing things I don't care for (which I have been doing a lot), or tired (which I am currently), but it seems larger than the usual quiet devotion in which I spend the majority of my life. Here's an average weekday for me - breakfast alone, quietly playing the piano, reading on the train alone, sitting at a desk, eating lunch alone and reading, spending 2 whole hours at the gym alone speaking to no one, going home to quietly play piano alone or write this, then fall asleep, pitifully praying that phone notifications fill in the cracks. Very lonely, but I like it most of the time, and for the last year and a half or so I have really relished doing exactly what I want with no responsibility to anyone. I have very fun nights most weekends that also help me through a lot, and more often than not hanging out with someone can cushion the blows for me. I helped my friend learn how to roller skate in a park last week and it was suddenly easy not to feel crushed (we saw a couple facetiming all their friends and family to say they had just gotten engaged, their dog kept barking, we saw three hunky, smiling men slowly trading kisses with each other as the sun set behind them, a guy on a skateboard told my friend as she slowly wheeled past that we all gotta start, you just gotta go). But that was a special night, and mostly I feel that the nighttime and weekend fun and occasional rewarding emails and texts just aren't cutting it. I'm not getting the same sense of community, love, and fulfillment that my chosen solitude used to give me. I feel further afield from my loved ones, from the ones I want to love, like they're shouting my name at the same volume they always have but I'm being pulled out and away and they're reaching me less clearly. Is it a problem with me, I wonder. Have I driven folks away, am I repulsive in some way, have I acted in a way that has caused those close to me to take two steps back. Or what's worse is this drifting out caused by something that I cannot control - being uninteresting is maybe worse than acting transgressively. I'm not sure how to swim parallel to the shore. I'm not sure how to stay calm. Two little hands unseen against the horizon.

Someone told me recently about riding horses along the beach and how unexpectedly they encountered quicksand, the horses went right through it and sunk up to their chests. The riders had to hop off. The poor animals were freaking out, foaming and breathing their hot, heavy breath, how could they not. How surreal to see a group of horses still saddled buried up past their knees in the wet sand of the breaking surf. A moment of helplessness. What could be done. But one horse calmed and with whispers and soothing got talked into taking a step. As long as the horses remained calm and didn't jostle the sand it could hold the weight of one step, then another. Slowly, pleaded with, the horses emerged, one by one, excruciatingly slowly. They got free. They escaped to spray saltwater from their hoofs in a gallop once again.

(Did I already write to you about the lightning storm at the water park with my church group? I can't remember if I did or not. It almost fits in here, maybe I'll come back to it).