catch and release

So, I’ve been thinking about fishing… which is a bit hilarious.
I actually like fishing; not that I do it regularly at all. But I have always enjoyed some good fishing off the dock at the cottage when we get up to it. I remember feeling very proud as a child when I could take my own fish off the hook, especially when it was a rock bass and you had to carefully fold down their spikes before working the hook out of its lip.

This phrase of ‘catch and release’ had caught in my mind this week. It’s in an Audrey Assad song that I have held close for many years. The song is called Shiloh, and the lines goes like this:
See what you've lived through
So you can grieve it (you can let it go, you can let it go)
And draw it towards you
Catch and release it (you can let it go, you can let it go)

And I’ve been thinking about the practice and space of holding close what’s happening without needing to cling to it, or stay there perpetually. It’s the same lesson I’m learning again and again, this time with a new fishy metaphor :)
In these days where I feel better, I know that part of the work and rest is to feel the things I can’t when I’m experiencing the side effects of the chemo. Now there is energy to let the feelings, and thoughts, and questions flow, but I have to choose the effort of it. I have to say yes over and over, with patience, with grace, with kindness to myself, and allow the real feelings and thoughts to come in all their jumbled craziness.

If you’re fishing with a catch and release approach, all of the effort and experience of fishing is there, but you just don’t keep the fish. There’s no dinner… you’re not digesting what you’ve caught. Instead, after holding it up, taking a good look and maybe a picture to remember it by, you let it go again. It’s released, returned to the wild. And one could ask the question of why bother with the process if there is no fish at the end… but if you’ve fished, you might already know the answer. For in both fishing and feeling, it’s not accomplishing something that is the desired result, but rather the process itself: the doing, the going, the growing, the presence to what is, that is the purpose and the point. This is not a task to complete; it is a way of continuing on.

And this is the work before us as those who want to know more of our souls. We need space, room, and intention to see and hold the thoughts and feelings that are swirling around inside. Psalm 139 talks about how we are so wonderfully complex, and I think it’s in the catch and release of these layers and pieces of ourselves that we come to learn more of who we made to be, and also more of the One who has formed us in the dark.

Even with so much time and space, I find I still have to intentionally choose this process. It doesn’t happen by accident, and it doesn’t happen in a hurry.
I have to remember that there is safety and holding in this process by the God who knows me completely, and that it is good work to choose, and to choose again.

So there is a beauty and a purpose in the holding of our questions and our turmoil, the slippery, glistening, sometimes smelly beauty of our real lives and our real selves.
And then, wonderfully, there is also the release.
Though we are invited to catch, and see, and hold, and touch the deep questions and pieces of ourselves, I don’t think we should often feast on them. There are many, many questions and feelings that we should hold in the presence of our loving God, look them over, listen to what God has to say, and then purposefully let them go.
We don’t need to take them home, or keep them to hang on our wall. Instead, we can listen to the beauty and truth that God will speak, and let that be what nourishes and sustains us instead.
So, yes to fishing and feeling. But also yes to letting go of what is not ours to hold.
God is near, and he is so very ready and wanting to carry it on our behalf.

My heart needs to hear it all again. When I edge to feeling the things, it’s a lot. Every time it’s a lot, and the tears are plenty close at hand. But I remember again that it’s not mine to keep or carry. I remember that it’s in the process of feeling and releasing that I see everything more clearly. I remember that just knowing is not the same as casting the line and reeling it in. I remember that this is laborious, hard, and purposeful work. I remember that there is both mess and beauty. There is both chaos and calm.
I remember that it all belongs, and that I am being formed and found as I go.

I have been sitting more with the story of Jesus calming the storm also. More boats and water. More fish and waves. And the line that stood out to me from Mark’s account is at the very start:
As evening came, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s cross to the other side of the lake.” (Mark 4:35, NLT)

I’m not sure I can explain all the feeling that come with that one line; I’m not sure if I’ve done all the catch and release of it with Jesus yet myself.
But this is some of what rises:
- it’s evening - rest and shadow, darkness and uncertainty, the end, the beginning…
- Jesus says to his disciples - they are together, they are his, they are learning, he is leading…
- “Let’s cross to the other side of the lake” - they’re going together, there will be a crossing, an in-between, a middle, a vulnerability, and it will take some time and effort;
And there is also the promise of the other side - they will go through the middle, and whatever it may hold (psst… a crazy storm!!), but then they will get to the other side, and Jesus will be there the whole stinking way.

It hits hard. A promise, a going, a hard, stormy middle. Even now, my spirit feels the invitation with both weight and promise, with both real trepidation and confident hope.
I think it’s a fish I need to keep on reeling in and letting go a few more times still, but I can feel the pull and the promise of it.

Tomorrow I have a CT scan. It’s mid-point(ish) check in to see how things are going inside. I’ve finished 7 of 12 rounds of this course of chemo.
The scan feels significant as a piece of information to take in, though it’s hard to say how much it will tell us.
I feel the weird mix of anticipation at something to mark, and then also a need to just carry on in the midst of it as well.

So I think it’ll be a day of holding my feelings up to see them, and then I know I’ll be thankful to release them again to the One who holds all of me in his care and safe-keeping.

Thanks for continuing to pray with us. We are trusting and asking and waiting and carrying on :)
And we continue to all be so very well held through it all.

To wrap it up, here’s some lovely poetry by Rilke that extends the invitation to continue deeper into ourselves and into all that God has for us:

You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don’t seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it’s not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.

Blessings friends. Grateful always for the space to share the thoughts that come.
It’s healing and helpful for me in these days too.
L xo