They say there is a feeling called l’appel du vide, the call of the void. It is the sudden, overwhelming impulse to move towards the edge. Not necessarily because we want to fall, but because, for a fleeting moment, we feel the pull of something larger and more powerful than ourselves. It is the urge to let go and surrender to its depth and strength.
I know that feeling. I think I have always had it. When I was about ten years old, I fell from a height, or perhaps I jumped. The memory is no longer clear enough for me to know. Perhaps the sensation of letting go felt so overwhelmingly extraordinary that I could not resist it. Or perhaps I simply wanted to discover what would happen if I did.
That is why we put barriers around high places. They allow us to approach the edge without being consumed by it. Perhaps we all need barriers of some kind, something between us and the void, until we feel safe enough to trust ourselves near the edge, or even to trust the void itself.
Oceans have always fascinated and frightened me. I have told you that. I grew up in one of the very few places on Earth where the ocean exists beyond more than one horizon, with entire countries standing between the land of my childhood and the nearest open sea. The ocean was never part of my landscape. It belonged to distant maps, stories and imagined worlds.
Years ago, I nearly drowned. I have told you that story too. It remains the only moment in my life when I came frighteningly close to accepting that my life was over. There was a point when the struggle began to leave me and the possibility of death felt almost inevitable. I survived, but the memory of that surrender stayed somewhere inside me. Perhaps that is why the ocean has continued to represent both terror and longing, the fear of being consumed and the desire to trust something immeasurably greater than myself.
But have I also told you that, deep down, one of my greatest desires is to swim in the open ocean without being afraid of drowning? To trust that the ocean will not take advantage of my vulnerability. To surrender to it and allow myself to be consumed by it, not in a deadly way, but in a way that makes me part of what it is.
I understood this more clearly on that majestic beach in Deià with you.
Earlier, from the empty restaurant high up on the cliffs, the sea had looked dark green and secretive, as though it were concealing something beneath its surface. Yet the restaurant itself had been left completely open. There were no gates, no guards and nobody preventing strangers from entering and exploring it.
As a property lawyer, I am accustomed to dealing with laws, restrictions, protections and all the measures people put in place to control access and guard against every imaginable risk. Yet there it stood, open to the world, its owners apparently trusting that nobody would enter merely to damage it.
The only creature guarding the place was a beautiful cat, although I do not think guarding was quite what it had in mind. It approached us with such confidence and enthusiasm that it seemed perfectly at home with both the restaurant and the strangers wandering through it.
There was something liberating about the entire experience. Not everything left open will be harmed. Not everything unguarded will be taken advantage of. Sometimes openness is not carelessness. Sometimes it is the quietest and most beautiful expression of trust.
When we reached the beach, however, the sea frightened me. The rocks, the depth and the force of the water crashing against them made me feel very small and helpless. You saw the fear in my eyes, and you seemed surprised. You said something about being so accustomed to seeing me confident and fearless that the hesitation in my eyes had caught you off guard. I get scared too, you know.
I noticed that you had noticed, so I immediately began thinking of a way to conquer my fear. I think I even told you to go for a swim and leave me to explore by myself for a while. You did not. In fact, throughout our trip, you kept saying that you would not go anywhere without “your woman.” Do not think I did not notice. I did. My soul smiled every time you said those words.
Standing on the beach, I told myself that I needed to understand everything first. I needed to study the shore and the rocks, feel the strength of the waves and work out what the water might do. We walked around to the right side of the beach and entered the sea. You went first. I asked you how deep it was.
Then I saw a woman with an inflatable mat and envied her for having had the good sense to bring one. She had brought her own barrier, something that allowed her to surrender to the water without placing herself entirely at its mercy. I told you that I wished I had brought one too, but you said that was not intelligent.
I understood what you meant. You have always encouraged me to challenge my fears instead of immediately reaching for something that allows me to avoid them. The inflatable mat might have made me feel safer, but perhaps it would also have prevented me from discovering that I could enter the water without it.
It reminded me of that afternoon on Hampstead Heath when, for the first time, I took off my bra in the park and allowed the sun to truly touch my body. It may sound like a small and ordinary act, but to me it represented the release of another inhibition, another layer of protection between my body and the world. You guided me gently, never pressuring me or making me feel exposed. With your beautiful body beside mine, you guarded me and created a space around us, both physical and psychological, in which I could relax, breathe and let go of my fear.
Perhaps that was another kind of inflatable mat I no longer needed. I had spent so much of my life believing that safety came from covering, controlling and anticipating. In that moment, you helped me understand that sometimes safety can also come from being seen, accepted and protected without being confined. I will never forget that moment.
But back to the beach now.
I entered the water after you and, as I did, realised that I was not entering it without a barrier after all. I had you. Not as a guarantee that nothing could happen, and not as a substitute for my own strength, but as a reassuring presence beside me while I found the courage to trust myself.
Your presence gave me courage. I could feel the rocks beneath my feet, some of them slippery, and the sensation of the water against my skin was beautiful. For once, I did not have to know everything. I did not need to establish the exact depth, identify every hidden current or account for every possible way in which I might drown before allowing myself to enjoy the water.
There may have been risks, but I did not have to let them steal that moment from me. I could simply swim in that beautiful water with you.
From the restaurant above, the sea had looked dark green and secretive. Yet once I entered it, I discovered that it was transparent and beautiful. Perhaps some things appear frightening only when we observe them from a distance. Perhaps we have to enter them before we can see them clearly.
The empty restaurant, the trusting cat and the dark green sea that became transparent only after I found the courage to enter it all seemed to be telling me the same thing. Not everything that is left open will be harmed. Not everything mysterious is dangerous. Not every vulnerability will be exploited.
I know that I can be hypervigilant. I am like that in so many areas of my life. Perhaps I became this way after years of having to protect both myself and the people I love. But I am learning that I do not have to understand and control every possible danger before I allow myself to live.
With you, I am learning that the world is not as dangerous as I sometimes imagine it to be. It is not completely safe, and life will never be entirely free from uncertainty or risk. But I can still experience it fully, knowing that if something real happens, I am capable of facing it.
Perhaps nothing terrible will happen. Perhaps I am allowed simply to be safe and happy with you. As each day passes, as I learn more about you, listen to what you say and watch what you do, my belief in the possibility of our “happily ever after” continues to grow.
Perhaps you are that something I have been searching for. Something pure in its intentions, strong enough to hold my trust, magnificent enough to inspire my surrender and genuine enough to receive my vulnerability without taking advantage of it. Perhaps you are the ocean I can finally enter without first needing to understand and control every wave.
I am sorry for all the inflatable mats I have brought into our relationship until now. For the unnecessary protections, the questions, the tests and the fears inherited from experiences that had nothing to do with you. I thought I needed them to keep myself from drowning. I am beginning to understand that they do not always protect me. Sometimes they merely prevent me from discovering that I can float.
I will always keep the boundaries that allow me to remain myself, but I no longer want to place old fears between us. I do not need to cling to them anymore. I can put them down, enter the water and trust what I am experiencing.
You are not asking me to drown for you. You are showing me that I can let go without disappearing. So I am letting go now, not of myself, but of the fear that has kept me standing at the edge for so long.
I am entering the water without the inflatable mat. I am choosing to trust you.
UnlearningSilence.blog 