I Am a Rock; I Am an Island

With visible breath, the ocean calls to me. I don’t know how I got here, yet, here I am, studying stripes of tan and white painted along the sides of this dramatic shoreline. The brisk air smells fresh and salty. Surrounded by water, the island is only accessible by some naval transport. With visible tracks, I find my way to the edge of the water, and soon sparkling sprinkles of refreshing spray splash my face friendly in an encouraging whisper as if to say, “Look! There it is!”

I wipe away Mother Nature’s raspberry and squint into the distance.

Yes, I can see it. With its prominent mast serving as a beacon, the tiny triangle appears more like an optical illusion, as though the ship is floating rather than sailing.

And it’s coming straight for me.

This realization causes me to swell with anxious joy. Helpless in both my location and elation, I can do nothing but stand there and wait.

Hundreds of years ago, investors purchased products and vessels to transport goods to various merchants. Upon this ship’s return, their reward would be onboard. That is where we get the expression, “when your ship comes in.”

Giving a balmy smile, I consider what hard-earned rewards await me.

I have no expectations, only hope.

I shift my feet in the sand, fully aware that there’s too little solid soil beneath. The gritty particles are not abrasive, just heavy and forever settling in those hard-to-reach places between my toes. Bending down to brush off the tops of my feet with one hand, I’m reminded that sand is the glitter of the sea and am soon overwhelmed with the decorative debris in my hair, nose, and mouth.

The wind lifts my white sundress in a slight attempt of humor, bringing my focus back to the ship. It’s hard to tell how close it is or how fast it’s moving, but it seems I’ve been waiting for this ship my entire life.

Scattered along the island are my footprints, breadcrumbs from the earth, reminding me of where I’ve been. Many of these tracks have since been covered by the sands of time. Other steps have yet to be taken.

Something shiny bobs its way onto dry land. Excitedly, I retrieve my newest message in a bottle, sent out weeks ago, from the shoreline.

Perhaps it’s from the ship!

Maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for!

But rejections are painful, even in Sanskrit.

“Don’t take it personally,” I tell myself, placing the message alongside its stack of similar friends with the subtle clink of the bottles touching like they’re high-fiving each other. I now have an entire case of failures that I am forced to drink up every time a new bottle appears. With a sigh, I add, “It’s business.”

Though clever coconut trees nod in agreement, I shake my head. Every craftsman, regardless of specialty, has a sense of self within their creations. How does one not take every “pass” as some level of personal failure?

The wind taps me on the shoulder, and I look again to my ship.

I wonder if it's even moving at all.

I don’t want to be discouraged. I want to be patient and strong. I don’t want these let-downs to bother me so much, but they do. I wish I could be one of those people who is unphased by criticism—and for the most part, I am—but when it comes to my craft, it affects me deeply. How I want to break every one of those bottles! But glass is kin to sand and glitter, and the sharp shards of subjectivity when turned down are cutting enough. Scattering them might do more harm than good.

With another sigh, I plant myself into the embankment and watch the sun as it wades in the calm, blue water ahead. The earth seems to give my bottom a tender love-pat in response, and I laugh as it sinks into a cushy, quasi-permanent position. There will undoubtedly be a butt-print later. I laugh again at myself and the thought of two prominent cheeks embedded among all the footprints. Just another part of my story, I suppose.

My story.

It’s still being told, isn’t it? I see the chapters scattered around me, all evidence of my patience and strength. The rest is still unwritten.

I consider that staring at my ship won’t make it arrive any faster, just like staring at my rejection collection won’t erase their disappointing messages.

“Check your ego, Laura,” I say. “You’re not your successes or your failures. You’re just you.”

The sun flashes off the water around my ship so that it seems like a wink from the universe.

“Yes, Laura,” it tells me. “And that’s all you have to be.”