It was my last morning on the island. A long walk was in order. Not just to burn off my lack of discipline at the breakfast buffet but to enjoy a good stretch before I sat for hours on the flight home. I also wanted to spend as much time as possible enjoying the natural beauty that surrounded me.
As I stood watching the waves break over an outcropping of lava rock, I noticed that one of the rocks was not like the others. It was smoother and had a different shape and texture. Then I realized: “That’s no rock, that’s a sea turtle!” This brought a smile to my face, as I had yet to spot a sea turtle during this visit, and because the sea turtle brought back happy memories.
I recall powering up the desktop computer that my husband Ed and I shared. I noticed that the avatar I normally clicked on to take me to my files and folders had been replaced by the picture of a turtle. At first, I was taken aback. “A turtle? He thinks I look like a turtle?” Then I understood. The first time we visited Hawaii together, we had checked into our hotel, left our baggage in our room, and went to the water as fast as possible. We walked around a small lagoon and spotted it, our first sea turtle! That explained the turtle avatar. Later, I presented my turtle avatar theory to him, and he smiled and nodded. He was a wise man, so if I was wrong and for some other reason I reminded him of a turtle, he was not going to disturb our peace.
The last time that we visited Hawaii together, we arrived with heavy hearts. Just two months prior, my father had died. We had spent much of that time traveling back and forth between our home in Southern California and my parent’s home in Washington State. My mother was not yet ready to be alone. We would alternate—one of us staying in California while the other would stay in Washington. Sometimes, we would pass each other on the road in Washington, one on the way to the airport, the other on the way from the airport. We were fortunate to be able to provide Mom with this type of support. Still, we were exhausted.
There we were, sad and overwhelmed, staring at the water and the palm trees. And then it appeared a large, well-formed rainbow. We both came from traditions that taught that the rainbow was God’s promise. We also both left those traditions for Buddhism. Still, this rainbow gave us both a sense of hope and peace.
Sea turtles and rainbows are not particularly rare in Hawaii. Depending on when and where you visit, you will probably see a turtle and a rainbow more than once. I don’t think that my deceased husband sent the turtle I recently saw. I don’t think that my late father created the rainbow. But I have come to understand that no matter how long someone has been gone, there will be times when you encounter a person, place, or thing that will bring you back to a time when your loved one was still alive. Treat these moments as gifts, even if they bring tears to your eyes. Accept a flashback as a helpful tool. Watch the memories as they arise within you, note the feelings that surface, and as the memory fades away, let it go. Look at that sea turtle, smile at that sea turtle, maybe even take a picture—because you can’t have too many pictures of sea turtles. Then, continue your walk. Return to the present and live life as it is now.
There is the potential for stressful, traumatic memories to surface. Maybe you see a car that reminds you of unhappy family road trips. The kind where one or both of your parents said to you and your brothers or sisters, “Don’t make me pull this car over!” Unfortunately, you and your siblings continued to act up and once the car was pulled over, you received a spanking. That’s not the best memory. In a way, these difficult memories can still be a gift. They show you where you have some work to do with forgiveness or processing trauma and difficult emotions. Just like with the happy memories, watch the memory arise within you, note how you feel, and let the memory go. If you find that you are unable to let go, or that dread and anxiety remain behind, be sure to seek professional help.
Accept the fact that memories will come. You do not always know when, where, or why. You do know that these memories are another opportunity to practice.
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