Water Girl

Joelle Deyo holds a degree in Fine Arts from Cal Poly, Pomona and is an artist residing in Glendora, California.

Joelle knows the pain of marital infidelity, betrayal and divorce, and she is a survivor of addiction, childhood sexual abuse, and Anorexia.

She brings a wealth of experience to Wings Like Eagles, and is willing to be transparent and real so that our readers who have traveled similar paths will have someone with whom they can relate.

She is an advocate for the recovery process, and is a firm believer that there is hope, and a fulfilling life on the other side of Crisis.

It is Joelle's hope is that her experiences, past and present, will bring perspective and encouragement to those who are in the middle of their own life battles and who have been stuck in the pit, just like her.

 I grew up in a small town in Minnesota surrounded by forests, fields, and water. My family’s old Victorian house was situated about a hundred yards from a beautiful lake and many of the happiest memories of my childhood are tied to the time I spent on that shore. I wiled away many quiet hours fishing, a skill I learned before I could even ride a bike. I liked to wade into the tepid summer water, just up to my knees, dig my toes into the fine sand, and cast my line out again and again in hopes of snagging bass and sunfish. The sun bleached my hair into a tangle of strawberry blond and the water made me smell of algae – and probably of fish – but I didn’t mind. 

Sometimes my brother and I snuck out of the house in the middle of the night to run down to the dock. There is nothing quite like taking a forbidden swim under the stars on a muggy August night. We chased craw fish over the rocks with the neighbor kids, watched schools of baby tadpoles flit about in the shallows, and dug clay from the lake bed.

After a day spent exploring, I often climbed the hill to my home looking the picture of a mucky, soggy wild child.

I live in Southern California now and it’s hard to find a quiet aquatic escape here. Havasu is crowded and does not count, and the L.A. River, which is paved with cement, is less a river, and more a hang-out for the local abandoned shopping cart population. Of course, I have the ocean, and I dearly love meandering down the beach and feeling the inexorable pull of the tide underfoot. But I often find myself longing for the solitude of the place I grew up. I miss the breeze in the pines and the clean scent in the air. I miss sitting on a piece of driftwood and just gazing out over a pristine wilderness.

Even so, this is home and I have come to love it. And I am grateful that I carry with me all of the things that my lake taught me when I was young. 

I learned that water is adaptable. When still, it fills the space it is given, demanding nothing more, but taking no less than what it requires. I learned that it may also over flow, seeking a channel through which to move or a place in which it may come to rest.

I observed that it is changeable. It sustains life and gives relief, but may also be dangerous when it rushes like a tidal wave or floods a river valley. It holds mysteries in its depths. It may look calm on the surface, but a mighty current may surge where it runs deep. 

I think I am like water. In truth, I know that I am like water. You may be wondering how this is relevant to Crisis Recovery.  You may not identify in the same way with the picture I have painted.

I imagine, however, that you may be familiar with what it means to crash, flood, run, seek…and to be still. All of these words can be used to describe the behavior of water. They can also be used to explain the process of grieving. We crash against suffering, we flood with strong emotions, we run from our pain, we seek answers, and finally, hopefully, we come to rest, in stillness, as we accept our lives for what they are.

Acceptance means we may then begin to fill the space we have been given, demanding no more, but taking no less than what we need. And we may begin to sustain the life we have – not the one we think we should have had, or the one we may feel that we deserve – and offer relief to others.

I am not always placid like the lake I fished in as a kid. Some days I feel more like the river that carves through stone over millennia just by being quietly insistent. You might call it being stubborn.

I have definitely crashed hard against some massive sea walls in my life. But I do know how to be still. I do reach back to that quiet place and remember what it was like to slip beneath the surface into the sublime blue-green and become liquid myself. That is what peace looks and feels like to me.

What does it look like to you? Is it a desert oasis that offers you a shady place to rest? Is it a cozy home tucked away in snowy hills, or a pretty garden pathway leading nowhere in particular? In what unique terms do you understand peace?

I’m a water girl. It’s a part of me. It speaks to me. It taught me how to be adaptable, and, thankfully, changeable. I have had to adapt and needed to change to get to this place in my journey. But who are you? What does your picture of wholeness look like? Are you a rose coming into bloom? Or a root, pushing deep into the loam and drinking of the hidden Life? Are you just you, at ease, walking in more strength and love than you ever imagined you could? That is a picture worthy of pondering.