There’s a common idiom in the States, or at least in the east coast’s mid-Atlantic region. I’ve heard it countless times. It would be a lie to say it wasn’t usually in reference to me.
“Still waters run deep”
As a imaginative person, this phrase elicits not simply a mental illustration but a short yarn. Though I am a story lover, I am not a storyteller; brace yourself.
Artunis wakes. The sun has barely begun to stretch her pale golden rays above the horizon. Yet he wakes, noticing first the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath. His eyes still closed, Artunis then listens to the gentle ebb and flow of the ocean as it brushes against the sand outside his window. His custom taught him this; rise before dawn to assess the sea’s favor for the day. Even after all of these years, each morning brings the same tidings; a promise and a hope of what can be.
The gentleness of his breath deepens. Artunis takes in a longer inhale of the fresh sea air. He stretches then opens his eyes to witness the sun begin to show her head just above the horizon. The light invigorates his weather-worn body, as he sits up, places his feet against the cold floor. A smile forms across his lips. He stands to walk onto his bedroom balcony. The water looks serene with these first rays of light. “What a fine morning” he chuckles to himself. “I think I’ll take a stroll along the wave.”
Artunis dresses for the outing, mindful of the others in his household, who remain in their last few minutes of their slumber. Cautiously, he walks along the corridor towards his front door. The foyer table still holds his straw fedora from yesterday’s amble. He clutches it and moves along. Yet, in his eagerness, he neglects his cane and steps into the new day.
Much has changed since his youth. So many things. Yet the ocean still evokes the same heart-light it ignited when first he beheld its wonder. And so he departs from his threshold, making his way across the sand to where the water meets the shore. The salt air enlivens him as it brushes past his cheek. The water, despite the day’s early warmth, chills his toes as he meanders for a time along the quiet waters.
The light of his heart moves throughout his being. Artunis smiles in the merry contentment from the joy of a life well-lived, the kind that only old age permits us. Yet, the youth within his soul gets the better of him; he wades out into the water. Ahead, he notices a sandbar which has formed not too far out. Artunis again accesses the sea. Perceiving no need for concern, he daringly walks out along the bar. Little by little he leaves the beach behind, the sandbars illusion of security underneath him.
Despite his years, the feel of exposure and adrenaline rush through Artunis’ veins. Memories of yesteryear draw him back into his life on the sea. He fixes his gaze on the ahead. Out before him waits the vastness of the radiantly unending horizon. Miles upon miles of blues and greens speckled only by the shimmering of the sun’s rays. The scene sings to him songs of beckoning. Yet through the sirenic melody cuts a thunderous voice from within, warning him to halt, and not a moment too soon.
Beneath him does is not a boat; beneath him lies the last few inches of the sandbar. A step slope indeed, one that causes Artunis to stop before it is too late. He is mesmerized the the drop. An inch before him, the ocean below lies still, clear, as crystal; in her depth she reveals all of her enchanting mysteries. Artunis, so long lost in thought realizes he has traveled to the sandbar’s end. Meters upon meters down into the abyss the ocean shows him her depths.
Let’s leave our leading man here and return to the phrase that started it all (though I assure you that after years as a successful and God-fearing fisherman-how else did he afford that house with the balcony- Artunis successfully navigates his way back to safety).
“Still waters run deep”
It is surprising that Artunis found himself staring down to the bottom of the ocean. He was a fisherman, a perilous profession that requires one to be vigilant, to know one’s surroundings and definitely one’s footing as the moment unfolds. It also requires one to anticipate all that could be ahead, as well as possible courses of action. We must then wonder “what happened?” Did he, in his comfortable retirement forget his lifetime of lessons? Did the beauty of his surrounding impinge his awareness? Did the gentle musings of old age, in a warm and joyous season reduce his witness of the pause? Did he forget that the ocean is not a static character, but instead of a rather dynamic one who holds her secrets and reveals only as she deems wise?
People are not like the ocean
Except
People are like the ocean.
Trust is built in small, ordinary ways that unfold over time. Little by little we allow the mysteries of our depths to emerge for glimpses (or sightings if you prefer) before returning them back into the depths below our surfaces. Over time, more can be revealed IF that trust is won. However, the depth always remains. The ocean does lose leagues simply because we land lovers don’t see it. No! The depth continues to exist even if one has not paused to deservingly witness it.
Artunis was likely surprised and probably alarmed to be caught by the depths. He didn’t anticipate it though he may well have done had he remained aware that he walked away from the shore and into the ocean or respected the possibility.
SO that brings to mind another idiom…
How deep is your well?
I’ve heard this a few ways.
As a clinician, I’ve heard this in reference to self-care. For anyone reading this who is not a clinician, I interpret (which I now present to you) this to mean that you can only give what you have. If you are weary or are – to use the coined term- experiencing compassion fatigue/burnout you don’t have the energy to aid others. You need to replenish your well because it nearly runs dry; the water levels are shallow and not deep.
In day to day, this question asks how complex or multi-faced you are. Again, it’s usually in response a unexpected reveal, as the ocean gave to Artunis.
I am an ocean. I have a depth, nay, an intensity that most will never see. Inside myself are ideas, thoughts feelings, hopes, dreams, and quite a few contradictions that I do not casually share. That they remain quiet does not negate their presence nor their resplendent magnitude.
In this, I am not singular. I ask you reader:
What lies beneath your still composure?
To what depths do you flow?
