Waves
Remember your physics class?1 Somewhere along the way, there was probably some discussion of, and formulae for calculating, waves—specifically their amplitude, frequency, and wavelength. To oversimplify2: amplitude is essentially the intensity of the wave, frequency how often it arises, and wavelength how long it lasts to get back to neutral.
In the ocean, we have options for how we approach the waves. Wade into them. Dive through them. Float over them. Sometimes we get caught, and they crash on us, drive us underwater, maybe even pin us or toss us for a while. In the worst cases, we drown. Sometimes we ride the waves, moving across them, within them—tapping into their own rising and falling, and making that rhythm our own.
My favorite thing to do with the waves is to stand back, watch, and listen.3 There’s a constancy about them—continuously moving, rhythmic, reliable. At the same time, they’re ever-changing—different amplitudes, frequencies, wavelengths. Stand back, watch, and listen; and you can see and hear it all.
We can do the same thing with pain, both physical and emotional. Like the sight and sound of waves, they are sensations. They are information we can observe, notice even the small changes, and respond accordingly. I’ve learned through developing a yoga practice that a mindful approach to movement—whether that’s asana, running, cycling, walking the dog, or scaling a wall—allows me to approach my activity level from a less programmatic, less reactive, more responsive position.
As a sufferer of chronic pain and a person susceptible to periodically re-aggravating old and serious injuries, I’ve learned the hard way that powering through, “playing through the pain,” is usually not the right approach for my body. More often than not, though, complete rest is hardly the right answer, either—certainly not of more than a couple of days. The challenge that arises is moving from inactivity to full activity, without under- or overdoing it.
Faced with this, I find myself on my yoga mat telling myself to stand back, watch, and listen. Move in a way that feels good. Or, if not good, helpful. Or, if not helpful, achievable. Observe the effect. Does the pain spike? Subside? Stay the same? Respond. Move the same way, or differently. Then repeat the process. Move again. Observe again. Respond again.
Practices like yoga meditation teach us that feelings, both physical and emotional, are like waves: We can stand back, watch, and listen; we can ride, float over, or dive in; we can notice that they vary in amplitude, frequency, and wavelength.
And if we pay attention, we see that they are constant: Constantly moving, constantly changing, constantly giving us information to receive and to which to respond. We notice that, even amidst all that constancy and the shared traits, each wave has something else in common, too: No matter how intense, no matter how quickly it followed the last one, no matter how long it lasts—each wave will arise, and it will also pass away.
Me, neither; at least, not much; and not often.
Courtesy of the BBC, here’s a fuller explanation, if you’re inclined to refresh your memory of the actual physics of it. But also, for our purposes here, you don’t probably need more than my oversimplified version.
I like to imagine that I would enjoy surfing, but I’ve never done it. So, at least for now, my options are limited. If I could ever learn to surf, I might end up with a wave activity I like better than just observing.