A week or so ago, our fish died. He was a fish out of water, literally. I found him on the bathroom counter one day. He must have been out of water for a while, for there was a foot-long path of scales and goo trailing across the counter from the bowl.
I only came upon him by accident. I had gone to the bathroom to trim my moustache. It was then I saw the fuzzy blob of something-or-other on the counter.
Being curious as to what it was, I reached out to touch it. It flipped and flopped. Me? I screamed like a little girl, never expecting the blob to be alive. It took me a moment or two to figure out it was the fish, embarking on a dangerous and desperate journey in search of water, any water.
I scooped him up quickly with the lid from my shaving cream and returned him to his small bowl of water, which had obviously been a little too full, allowing him to scoot over the side unexpectedly.
I’m sure it came as a great surprise to him, suddenly finding himself out of water.
I can identify with that, having been a fish out of water a time or two myself.
The first time was a trip to unfamiliar waters, California. I had met someone in the Caymans who was living in Texas but moving to California. How could I go wrong with that? I decided to move to California too, for reasons that I still can’t fathom to this day.
Actually, I can. I had just lost my job, I had lost interest in the Seafair Pirates, I was lonely and without a rudder. A change of scenery seemed like just the ticket, so I headed south in my Honda Accord on the first of May 1990.
Thirty days later, I was back in Seattle. I was indeed a fish out of water, slipping into a deep depression that left me unshaven, unshowered and so depressed that I didn’t leave the apartment for two weeks… and I was in San Francisco, for chrissake!
I was more than happy to return to my own fish bowl, for flipping and flopping on the counter a thousand miles away was folly to begin with.
You’d think I’d learn my lesson somewhere along the way. But eventually, another southern bell (or ding-dong, depending upon how you view it), wiggled her tail and off I went again, this time to Floriduh waters!
I readily admit that I had always been taken with Florida. I loved visiting this part of the world, from Key West to the Redneck Riviera.
What I failed to understand, however, is that visiting and living are two very different concepts. When you visit a place, you still have your home waters waiting for you. When you move someplace, your home waters are supposed to go with you.
They didn’t. It seems that Pacific Northwest waters run very deep in my veins for I always felt like a fish out of water in Florida. It was never home.
It certainly is for other people and I applaud that. I guess everyone has their idea of paradise and eventually we find it. For some, it’s no more than a couple blocks from the house they grew up in. For others, it’s thousands of miles away in another state or even another country.
I can’t help but wonder though, if a lot of the problems that consume us in our lives is because we’re trying to live in waters that remain foreign to us. In other words, we are so set on living somewhere because of whatever factors (we ended up there after a failed relationship, we hate the cold, we’re running from our lives, etc.) that we fail to realize that we’re really not supposed to be there; that everything is askew because the universe is telling us that we are a fish out of water.
I wish my friends and acquaintances who met me in Florida could see me now. They didn’t know me at all in Florida. Being a fish out of water, I was gasping for air, lost in a current that I didn’t understand or appreciate, wishing I could find home.
I am a completely different person in my home waters. There is a sense of joy and peace here that I never had there. It’s home. Sadly, my home here was never home for others. I guess I should have known that pulling someone out of their own home waters was foolish, for eventually they migrated back to familiar territory, knowing that they were a fish out of water here in the Pacific Northwest.
It makes sense, for their own lives fell apart in Seattle, as if the universe was telling them that they shouldn’t be here, that this wasn’t home and never would be. They had different lives to lead, and I would expect that like me, they are flourishing now that they are back in their own home waters.
It’s not fun being a fish out of water. Like my little countertop flailer, we long to be in familiar waters. We want to find home, wherever that is. And until we do, we continue to flip and flop through life, enduring the harsh elements that surround us, signaling to us that it’s time to change our view, our habitat or our life, that what we are doing and continue to try to do is not where we are supposed to be or what we are supposed to accomplish. We are that poor fish, gasping for air, fearful for our very lives, feeling afraid and unfulfilled.
We are a fish out of water and we may never even realize it, either because we’re bullheaded, wearing rose-colored glasses or we actually enjoy ramming our head against that immovable brick wall that has become our life. We long to be free, yet we are floundering.
I hope you find your home waters, that place that brings you peace, harmony, love and happiness. If you have already found it, congratulations. If you’re still looking, just keep swimming, just keep swimming… and you’ll find it. It’s out there somewhere.
In the Emerald City, no longer living in a fish bowl,
– Robb