On Monday, I lost my one and only car key to the ocean.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Literally.

Somewhere between the shoreline and the tide coming in, while I was meandering, strolling, wandering, and enjoying 'not being busy' (and I'd long given up trying to keep the cold water from splashing and soaking into my boots) it slipped out of my pocket and disappeared.

At the time, I didn’t notice.

I was too busy being in it—in the waves, in the moment, in that rare, beautiful state where nothing is urgent and no place else is calling for me, for a minute.

And then… the shift.

The kind that drops you fast.

From full presence and joy… to logistics, inconvenience, tears, phone calls, and the very real realization:

I have no way to drive my car.

My car has since been towed and it's parked in front of my house where I can see it. Still no key. And... a few less than ideal solutions to work through.

This is Life, doing what it does.

My first instinct was to soften it. To find the 'lesson' as quickly as possible, so I could feel better. To remind myself that 'things are always working out for me'.

YES. It was frustrating.

Expensive. Inconvenient. Disorienting.

But also…

There was a gentle truth that dared to show itself.

I didn’t lose my key while rushing, multitasking, or being careless.

I lost it while I was fully living and feeling and being.

There’s a part of me that used to believe that if I was really aligned, really present, really 'doing life right'… things would flow more smoothly. Fewer disruptions. Fewer problems.

But that’s not actually how life works.

Presence doesn’t protect you from inconvenience.

Joy doesn’t protect you from real-world problems.

Being in flow doesn’t mean everything stays easy.

What it does mean… is that you actually experience your life while you’re in it.

Even when it goes sideways.

This moment has been asking something different of me.

Not "How do I stay high on life, 24/7?"
But "How do I stay steady when there's a wobble?"

Can I hold the memory of that beautiful, salty, alive moment at the ocean…
and deal with the reality what happened next?

Can both be true at the same time?

I think this is the real practice.

Not avoiding the drop—but softening how far we fall when things don’t go as planned.

Not gripping tighter—but creating better support around the parts of us that like to roam free.

Not making it mean we did something wrong—but letting it refine how we move forward.

And I can feel another pattern trying to form, too—subtle, but familiar.

The part of me that wants to say:
“Okay… let’s not do that again.”

Don’t bring the key.
Don’t get in the water.
Don’t be quite so carefree.

Tighten it up. Be more careful. Stay in control.

That instinct is trying to protect me from the frustration, the cost, the inconvenience of 'what if'.

But, that’s how life slowly starts to shrink.
With small, reasonable decisions that say:
“Let’s avoid that feeling again.”

Except… avoiding the feeling often means avoiding the experience too.

And I don’t want to become someone who stands at the edge of the ocean, watching instead of wading in, just because one time it didn’t go the way I hoped.

This happened once.

That doesn’t mean it will happen every time. Or next time. Or ever again.

And I don’t need to trade my openness for certainty.

What I can do is meet this moment, learn from it, definitely create a better system… and still stay available for the next experience.

Still be willing to step in.

Still let life be a little unpredictable.

The goal isn’t to eliminate inconvenience.

It’s to stay open… even when things don’t go perfectly.

So here I am.

Sitting with this inconvenience while we figure out the best solution and wait for assistance.

And also… still holding that feeling of the water around my soaked pant legs and boots, and the freedom of not needing to be anywhere else.

That didn’t disappear just because something inconvenient happened after.

This is where I'm landing:

I choose to have a beautiful, present life…
and I choose to deal with the occasional mess that comes with it.

One does not cancel the other.

—

Have you been riding your own waves lately? Moments of expansion followed by unexpected friction?
Well, guess what... you’re not doing it wrong.

It's called living.

Want some space to land, to move and breathe through it, and to reconnect with yourself? I know a perfect place.

Join me for a class at The Well, I'd love to see you there!