I always thought there were two types of clarity. Like a double-sided coin, each side is equal but different. Sometimes it hits like a lightning strike, sudden in its explosion. Other times it is a growing wave, the peak an undeniable reality. I should have known better.
A Jump
“We are here.” With those words, it is the moment I have been waiting for. “Are you sure?” they question. I am not, but adrenaline is flooding my blood, and I nod. I am vulnerable to fear but exhilarated by the thrill. I leap from the boat. The water is cold; the waves are slightly choppy. Salt burns my eyes and fills my nose. I swim faster. Long strokes from years of swimming and strong legs move me steadily toward the natural cliff steps. Climbing up the indents of rock, I make my way to the platform. It is a decision I have made after years of lessons on calculated risk. But, standing on the platform, rough and wild seas twenty feet below me, while the small outcrop of volcanic rock the guide warned me about peeks out to the right, it all fades away. I take a deep breath. Nerves grab ahold of me. I hate this fear. I want to extinguish it from my blood. Jump, a little voice whispers. Jump and be free. So I do. Crash. The impact burns. It cuts and stings. My lungs collapse, and I feel cold and hot everywhere. Then, I find it. For a minuscule, too-small second, I am gone. I am immersed in something grander, more purposeful. I am nothing but an instance of existence, a speck of emotion and feeling. I find clarity. Then, it all comes rushing back. My legs kick forward, and my sore arms propel me against gravity and toward the light. “Again!” I scream as I break the surface, my smile wider than it has been in a long time.
A Dive
Whoosh. Pause. Whoosh. Scuba diving is never silent. My breath reverberates and echos, every tiny movement and pause amplified. Bubbles race above my head, slightly crackling and breaking apart in segments. For once, my body is listening. My ears pop and equalize every few meters. My legs, sore from two other dives yesterday, seem revitalized with new energy. This is our last dive, a fifteen-meter shallow drift on the local reef. I had already gone snorkeling in the morning and found two black-tipped reef sharks, a manta ray, and many fish. The dive today is a comfort dive, a relaxing, thoughtful affair perfect to end the occasion. Five meters in. I can still see the subtle breaks of little waves above me. Bright, small schools of fish drift in and out of my view. Ten meters in. I sink deeper and deeper, the rest of the party far enough to pretend I am alone. I play a game of I-Spy: beautiful coral, a lobster, and more fish. Fifteen meters in. I hold onto a rock, pausing to wait for the rest of the group. Ocean undercurrents obscure the direct path of sunlight. Everything dances –– the light and water, the fishes and coral, even the sand barely visible another fifteen meters down. I look up. The bubbles change their tune from the rhythmic whoosh-pause to something more unsteady. A half-finished tank of air and a plastic line are the only things keeping me alive. Humans are intruders in this watery world. Our uncontrolled kicks topple old coral, our air bubbles disrupt the sound of water, and our greedy hands hold keepsakes and take bright pictures. As I look up at the reef wall, meters of colorful life mostly indifferent to my temporary intrusion, I feel small. For fifty minutes I am a guest in this magical world. For fifty minutes, I can escape the harsh realities of land and disappear amid the untamed ocean landscape. If clarity is realizing your small existence, I have found it. I am nothing in this ocean, but something of this world. A double-click sounds ahead, startling me from my philosophical ruminations. The instructor signs me “okay?” I respond, “yes,” and start kicking.
A Run
Rain is wet. It is a simple fact, but it feels inexplicably wetter when you run. The harsh raindrops cut into your skin. The night seems to blanket you in a seductive, earthly scent. The pounding of your steps against concrete is a constant low thump. The street lights flicker while the darkness seems to hide secrets between nooks and corners. Emotion and feeling engulf the physical senses. I hate running. I do it anyway, running from my demons and emotions, from the responsibilities that weigh me, and the knowledge of who I should be. Fifteen minutes in, running in the rain, and my old sweatshirt is drenched, but I have never felt hotter. My breath comes in short, choppy puffs. The streets are empty, only a handful of couples under umbrellas risking the watery gloom. Miserable alternative rock music consumes my senses, my headphones drenched but I cannot find it in myself to care. I run because there is a moment when the endorphins peak; when the question bothering you, pushing you to run faster and harder, is unsatisfactorily answered by hormones. It is a planned sort of clarity, one that you hope is achieved and wait for, anticipating the truth. Now, it finally hits me. Looking upward, I open my arms and ironically laugh. I think of the endless work I must complete, the sorry emotions that define my loneliness, and the merciless rain that keeps falling. But despite those, maybe even because of those, I can remind myself what it means to be alive. It means I have something to live for.
Clarity is many things. It is Passion. It is Connection. It is Purpose. It is a moment that makes you forget and remember. It comes at different times, in different circumstances, with different meanings and realizations. When it comes, it never leaves you. You crave it, always chasing the semblance of peace, the otherworldly feeling it brings. I don’t know if I regret finding clarity. It makes me a better person, sometimes. But I do wonder what it would be like to exist never knowing and chasing that feeling.