Ripples in Time
June 26, 2024
I found the book Wave by Sonali Deraniyagala deeply moving.
She declared on the first page, “I thought nothing of it at first. The ocean looked a little closer to our hotel than usual. That was all.”
A little bit “off”
How many times has something looked a little too close or a bit “off” and turned out to be nothing? For me, about 99% of the time. What matters Is the 1% when off is critical. Ocean and river waves, with both happy and tragic events, can arrive in stages, along with their usual random timing.
When Sonali watched the waves rush through trees close to her hotel room, the family fled. Looking back from presumed safety shortly after that, she didn’t know it was a tsunami she was fleeing from.
Why not me?
Later, when it was confirmed that her husband, two sons, and her parents were dead from the tsunami that swept through the beach hotel at Yala, Sri Lanka, she said, “Why didn’t I die? Why did I cling to that branch?”
My nine-year-old son, Brian, was swept away by the Inn River in Austria, begging the same question: “Why not me?” It has taken decades for me to fully process the tragic event and embrace my new purpose for living.
Powerful water
Four years after the tsunami, the underlying question persisted as to why Sonali and her family were at the very spot at the time of the big wave. Why were my family and I at the Inn River at the very time dams were opened upstream without warning?
Powerful water makes it extremely difficult to give perspective to the presumed guilt of letting a loved one die, even when there was no hope of saving the person. This was the case for both the author and myself. There was no possibility of rescue. Heartless and shameful are the usual, incorrect labels.
And, does a mother need to diminish the life she had with her child/children in order to release them?
Avoiding memories
Back at their home, Sonali entered only at nighttime, not able to even pick up a book her son Vik had been reading. When I first tried to open a book of Brian’s (his favorite, Henry Huggins), I had to close my eyes even when staring at the cover.
For three years, Deraniyagala avoided the memory of her husband and sons as alive. Finally, she dared to touch Vik’s Fools Gold rock and press it tightly in her hand. When I entered Brian’s room for the first time and touched his baseball glove, I pressed it to my breast, releasing the leather’s familiar smell. A fresh reality, both painful and good.
Treasuring remembrance
With many more experiences spent trying to connect the past to the present, the author comes to truly appreciate her visits to her son’s playroom and their home just as I came to treasure visits to Brian’s room, as well as the sofa where I read with my husband and children.
As mothers, both the author and I see our children’s tragic loss as unreal, but have come to accept the truth.
When Sonali first revisited the past, the emotions of the void drove her mad, but the more she remembered, gradually emotions became easier to handle. I went through that same work of recalling and facing the pain. The more I practiced, the easier it became to remember and to cherish the happy times.
To loosen a heart
Nature and blue whales spoke to Sonali’s past life with her children. Brian’s love of tiny creatures let me relive his joy—our joy—every time I touched one. A way to loosen a heart and/or to dream. Even today, I think about Brian’s connection to the natural world with cats, ants, water creatures, sunflowers . . .
Deraniyagala said, “By knowing them again, by gathering threads of our life, I am much less fractured.” She came to embrace the strong kinship Steve and the boys had with Colombo, the reason for their trip. My husband and I included Austria in our European trip because of Brian’s love of Mozart and the museum in Salzburg.
Sifting through your mind
Joyous and sorrowful memories will sift themselves through your mind, body, and heart. The griever can come to enjoy the stray eyelash—forever part of the author’s life, like Brian’s baseball glove is part of mine. Revisiting a warm thought for even a minute can lead to sustaining warmth and looking to the future.
The ripples of time
With the writing of my book, One Ripple at a Time, and the publication date close to my son’s birthday, I can embrace where I am in the ripples of time.
I sit at a stream and as each ripple tumbles through my toes, I speak the details of a fond adventure with Brian. It is as if the stream has washed over my body, mind, and heart. A new joy from an old memory . . .
—Janice Jensen