RobertXGillis

by Robert Gillis
Published in the Foxboro Reporter and the Boston City Paper, 3/2013

The water heals.

I’m a little kid, enjoying one of an uncountable number of childhood trips to Savin Hill Beach, experiencing the taste and smells of clean seawater and the joyous feeling of swimming and playing in the hot summer sun with all the laughing and crying children. I can feel the warm sun and taste the delicious boloney and cheese sandwiches Mom made, and the Kool-Aid and potato chips. The water is calling again, and I remember the frustration of having to wait 30 minutes after lunch before bursting back into the waves. An amalgam of memories of childhood, so many perfect days on the beach, all the childish cares and concerns washed away by diving under the seawater.

And the water heals.

I’m 11 years old, and nearly drowned a year previously in a local pool — my own fault, jumping into the deep end without knowing how to swim. But even after my “rescue” I immediately jumped back in the shallow end, back into the water that is always my friend, my sanctuary. I wasn’t scared of it; I would simply need to learn to swim.

Because the water heals.

That same summer, my cousin Ray and his family have invited me to the family cottage in Marblehead. I spend lots of time on that dock, teaching myself to swim, help the launch crew offload passengers, and listen at night to the chime of the buoys in the distance, and think about how I love the beach. And later that summer, back at that same pool that nearly claimed me, I jump into the deep end and surface exuberantly — because I have become a pretty good swimmer.

And because the water heals.

Two kids in their 20s are walking a beach, talking about past relationships, talking about past hurts, talking about future dreams. The ocean has always been special to the young lady, and the guy, well, he likes swimming so much he would stay in the sea until his lips were blue. That night, almost into sunrise, the two kids walk the beach, unaware they are falling in love as the steady roar of the ocean surf comes gently in, lapping the shore.

And the water heals.

It’s New Year’s Day and two kids, now twenty years older and a little wiser, are walking by the ocean on that same beach, as they often do, to greet the New Year. Nantasket Beach is very cold and covered with snow — entire sections of the lower shore are frozen solid. In the distance, the snow and ice taper to a steel-gray ocean — seemingly still but on closer inspection, moving, always moving. Ice floes and chunks of snow will soon be washed away, but for now, the ocean is a frozen mosaic, the boat slips are empty, the dock is snow-covered and quiet. Everything is still, waiting for spring.

And the water heals.

A summer afternoon in Boston — it’s been two long weeks of busy on-call and the (seeming) weight of the world on my shoulders. A mere $16 buys me a one hour passage aboard a harbor cruise to Old Ironsides. The sky is an unbelievable blue; the Boston skyline pristine; the sun feels great on my face. I walk to the back of the boat and watch, fascinated by the churning foam and long white wake behind the boat. My problems and negative thoughts are replaced by a kind of childlike wonder at all the energy being generated to propel this little boat along Boston Harbor, and the beauty of the panoramic ocean all around me.

And the water heals.

It’s winter and Ogunquit Beach is nearly deserted; a long, long stretch of pristine sand and a steady hiss of relentless waves are moving in, crashing, moving in, and crashing. I feel my breathing slow, and for a fleeting moment feel very small in a vast universe — there’s a poetic thought crossing my mind; a recollection of the Book of Genesis and the “dome” of the sky. The sky above the beach forms that perfect dome — the vastness, the sheer scope that is awe-inspiring and can’t be captured or defined in a photograph — you can only know it, only experience it, and only feel it. It’s absolutely magnificent; that sky and the ocean below.

And the water heals.

I’m on a whale watch and the Dramamine and the power of positive thinking are not helping at all. Along with about half of the passengers, we lie in the back of the boat, praying for quick death as the extreme nausea threatens yet again. Once again I gain a healthy respect for the fury and power of the ocean, as the boat bounces up and down and my overactive imagination enables me to see the situation as a group of helpless souls tossed around in stormy waves, at the whim of the angry sea gods, and on a more realistic note I am seriously regretting breakfast. I make my way occasionally on deck to witness the whales, but the battering rain, ferocious waves and roller-coaster passage make being vertical difficult. I return to the enclosed room, with my suffering crew. The tour mercifully ends, and we queasy survivors disembark on wobbly legs. But as I look around I am still amazed how beautiful the ocean looks, and its sheer ferocity reminds me to respect it. I’ll go back out for another whale watch, but on a much calmer day, to see everything I missed. I still love it; I want to be out there, experiencing it.

Because the water heals.

It’s late in the day in August; Jordan Pond in Acadia is quiet as always, save a few hikers walking by and the telltale clink-clink of silverware and china in the nearby restaurant. I sit by that pond, a few pebbles leaving ripples that I observe reaching outward. Time slows down; the universe is in perspective for just this moment.

And the water heals.

On uncountable occasions I’ve had it with the stress and a mind racing at light speed in thirty directions. I go to the gym, I hit the pool — I swim; and it’s so quiet — I hear nothing but the swish of the current. I open my eyes and see only blue; I can feel the water surrounding me, cradling me as I swim through it. My blood pressure lowers, my thoughts grow a little clearer, and then my mind calms, at least for a little while.

Because the water heals.

I’m standing at a place called Table Rock Observation Deck — some 150 feet tunneled down to a rocky “shelf” on the side of Niagara Falls. In a plastic yellow slicker I am soaked and standing closer — ever closer — feeling the sheer magnitude and might of this incredible force. I realize that I am as close to the Falls as I can get without being killed, and the feeling is exhilarating. It’s a heady feeling — this almighty cascade of watery fury — and I can’t help being stunned by the PRIMAL nature of what I am feeling. Despite being soaked I stay, transfixed by the elemental might I am witnessing. For an instant, I am one with this water, in sheer awe of something that can only be experienced. It’s absolutely joyful.

Because the water heals.

I walk the beach, alone or with that same young lady from twenty years earlier. I sit by the pond, and I enjoy an ice cream by the lake. I swim. I’m by the water, any water. A beach with crashing waves, a stream, a tranquil pond, a swimming pool, large bay, a glorious harbor, a jetty during a rainstorm. It doesn’t matter. The breathing slows. The mind calms; the circadian rhythm synchronizes with the element.

I remind myself that it’s always here; it’s always waiting for me; that I must respect its elemental might and temperamental fury, but like fire, as long as it is respected it will take care of you, nurture you, revitalize you, and renew you.

Because the water heals. It always heals.

“Take three seconds…”

by Robert Gillis
Published in the Foxboro Reporter and the Boston City Paper, 9/2012

“I need to tell you that you’re going to remember this night for the rest of your lives. It’s going to be a long night and we need you to work fast and we need you to work well. But once in a while, take three seconds — you can’t spare more than that — take three seconds to notice where you are and what you’re doing.” – Charlie Skinner (Sam Waterston), “The Newsroom,” HBO

Greetings Foxboro! We’re deep into the time of year where the kids are back to school or starting college, people are starting new jobs, and the so-called lazy days of summer (although they really are not) are fading into memory.

It seems so strange that we were just planning for Founders Day, or getting excited about the Red Sox upcoming opening day. And now, the leaves are starting to turn, it’s getting darker earlier, and the summer is a blur, and (YAY!) the Pats regular season is starting.

And while this one may seem a little sugary, or {shudder} “Gillis being overly sentimental,” it’s from the heart (as usual) and I have been thinking that “Charlie Skinner’s” advice is pretty good (although adjusted for a more reasonable ten seconds). I have been trying to embrace it lately, to wit:

I’m on my way to work and I’m tired and cranky; a typical Monday, but I take ten seconds and remind myself that I am gainfully employed, do interesting work, and like the people I work with.

I’m in church Sunday morning and the same person as always has let his cell phone go off for the fourth time. And as much as I want to do something very un-Christian to his phone involving a hammer, I take ten seconds and remind myself we all forget our phones, and he’s in church, experiencing the community, and hopefully our evil eyes will get the message across to him.

I’m on FaceBook and see that a friend is still hurting from a loss, and I take ten seconds and write something encouraging on her FaceBook page.

I see all the kids starting school for the first time, the nervous parents, the thrill and fright of the new adventure, and I take ten seconds and remember my first days of school, so long ago. A part of me envies them, and part of me is glad I am where I am. It’s a nice little moment.

I’m walking Castle Island and I take ten seconds and enjoy the sea air, the beauty of the area, and how good the walk feels.

And on a more serious note, I take a few minutes and reflect on how grateful I am to see people of color on Castle Island. It’s a sign of better times when the city-wide racism I recall — even as recent as my high school days — is vanishing, allowing everyone — not just white people — to enjoy this beautiful park.

I’m on Foxboro Common volunteering with my friends and working a camera for Foxboro Cable Access, filming the concerts. And amid the “stand by camera 2,” and, “can we get a close-up of the guitar,” I take ten seconds and realize how grateful I am to live in a community that has this great cable TV studio, where anyone can volunteer and learn so much and play with these “tech toys.” I encourage you to try it.

At another concert, I work the Jaycee membership booth and I take ten seconds and reflect on what a life-changing and excellent decision it was to join this amazing group and help the community. I am proud of the work I have done, and to be associated with, the Foxboro Jaycees and encourage you to check them out.

I’m passing by the farm stand and I take ten seconds and think of my old friend Bob Shea, who was so instrumental in the stand’s early days, and how happy he would be to know that all these years later it still flourishes and helps so many people, thanks to the all the wonderful volunteers.

I’m driving around Foxboro Common and I take ten seconds and realize how much “at home” I feel every time I see that Foxboro sign and that beautiful common. I love this town.

My nephew, now 16, is deep in learners permit territory and I take ten seconds to be grateful that I was the first to take him onto the highway, and marvel how well he handles a car — he’ll be a good driver. As we go out each time I take ten seconds and just watch how this young man, like a son to me, is so confident behind the wheel and I tell him how proud I am of him.

I take another ten seconds and explain to him that there is no such thing as a “bad math gene” and he needs to work harder at math and stop using a math-incapable uncle as an excuse.

I get depressed about this or that and I take ten seconds to remind myself that I don’t go to bed hungry, and I take another minute or so to resolve to donate more food to the food pantry.

I take ten seconds and realize I’m taking some of the people in my life for granted and realize I need to do better with them.

I’m complaining about the price of food but I take ten seconds and remind myself what a miracle it is to have this incredible variety of food in these amazing supermarkets.

The waitress is distracted but I take ten seconds and see that the restaurant is crowded, and short-staffed, and she’s on her feet all day and doesn’t need another cranky customer, so I tip her 20% anyway.

My wife is in the ER with severe bronchitis and I take ten seconds to be so grateful that medical care in this region is excellent, how grateful I am for antibiotics, and the resiliency of the human body and spirit.

I hear that hurricane Isaac is approaching Louisiana and I take ten seconds to say a prayer and have good thoughts for them, and later I take ten seconds to be thankful that Isaac was not another Katrina.

I take ten seconds and remember our two power-outages last year, and reflect how this town came together, and smile as I realize that as fractured as we can be, we unite when it counts and take care of each other.

I hear about the record arrests and custodies at Country Fest and I take ten seconds to publicly thank Chief O’Leary and his amazing force for keeping order and keeping us safe. They do an amazing job. I take another ten seconds to send a shout-out to Chief Hatfield and his department, and all the EMTs and emergency workers in town — God bless all of you.

I get frustrated by all the negativity as the presidential race ramps up and I take ten seconds to remind myself we live in a democratic and free nation, a country that while far from perfect, gets it more right than wrong, and is still growing. I take another ten seconds to be grateful that we still live in a free society where we vote for our leaders. And I would encourage you to VOTE this November. No matter what your politics or beliefs, apathy changes nothing. VOTE.

And finally, before I get all Yanni on you, I would just encourage you to take ten seconds and look around. You’ll be amazed what you see if you just stop and look. Your life is incredible, and I encourage you to stop existing and start living — even ten seconds at a time. End of speech.

(Pastor Bob has left the building)