pressure points

a place for parallels and metaphors

Right now is one of those times in the world — one of those times in the news cycle — where I find myself feeling guilty for sitting on the sidelines. But then, I go on my first ever night dive: a new, scary, wondrous thing. And I’m reminded why taking these six months away from work will help me see from new perspectives, with new empathy, with new understanding when I jump back in next week. Fair warning: this isn’t the last essay I’ll write about the magic that is the water in the dark. Here’s to the final days of funemployment.

When I hit the ground, I go.

I pop my ears while the plane is still descending and refresh my email; I start making calls. I line up interviews as I deplane and confirm the photographer’s location and ETA by the time I’m passing baggage claim. My muscle memory knows to unravel the phone charging cable for the rental car in my left hand, as I pull out my drivers license and hand it to the rental car agent with my right. He nods. I’m organized, efficient, and on a mission, on the clock. I dive in.

When I hit the ocean, I breathe.

I pop my ears as I slowly descend, my toes in their fins stretching toward the ocean floor as I let my buoyancy rotate me in the deep blue, surveying my surroundings. I fall deeper below reality. I triple check my vest is secure and watch my divemaster, forming the universal “okay” signal with my right hand, shaping my thumb and index finger together while the other three point to the sky. He nods. My left hand reaches directly ahead of me, my body falling forward as I balance to a horizontal position, the reef below me rising to meet me. My dive buddy, assigned for the day, hovers next to me as we both inflate our vests ever so slightly, suspending ourselves six inches above the world we’re about to discover. I nudge his flashlight strap tighter on his arm. I’m organized, efficient, and on a mission, underwater.

It’s dark here, a place I know I’m entering as a guest. Our light shines on what not everyone can see: in the coral, in the caves, in the cracks – a privilege. But this place won’t exist like this without us caring more about what we cannot see, what we cannot understand, what we cannot identify with. But I promise you, those who live here are bright beings – colorful in their own right, motivated to keep their community alive and thriving, and always moving, creating, contributing. On land, in the ocean – it’s true wherever you bother to really look.

The full moon shines through the surface of the water above us, my ears releasing and eyes adjusting as we rise, breaking through at the end of the dive. A rare strawberry moon intersects with a lunar standstill. Rare in that it doesn’t appear often, but the same moon is still visible to anyone else looking at the sky, no matter where they sit, swim, or lay.

Its light shines down on what not everyone can see, touching all of us. Even the ones who live in the quiet spaces, even the ones beneath the surface, even the ones we almost missed.

-mb