The Harbour, the Masks and the Call of the Sea

There was a time in my life when I didn’t realise how many masks I was wearing.

One mask in particular kept me going round in circles: the “I know who I am and what I want” mask.

It kept me lost.

And it confused the people trying to help me.

I didn’t know what I wanted and admitting that felt terrifying. Because at 20, 30, 40… shouldn’t I know?

One day in Bogotá, while I was looking for work and having endless meetings, someone said to me, kindly but firmly: “Look Hamish, you’re a nice guy… but no one knows what you want.”

I froze.

Instead of joining him in that honesty, I defended myself, consigning yet another moment to the growing graveyard of missed opportunities.

I interviewed for many jobs I never wanted and got really good at appearing to be enthusiastic.

And if doors didn’t open I just pushed harder, because that’s what you are meant to do, isn’t it?

What I didn’t understand then is that masks keep you in the harbour.

The harbour is safe, familiar and predictable.

We harbour our gifts and we harbour our wounds.

We know the routines. We know the expectations. We know how to blend in.

And for some of us, that’s where we stay.

For others, we step onto the cruise ships and ferries travelling the well-lit shipping lanes.

Still predictable and at least moving, this is a necessary passage for many of us.

But we cannot taste the salt in the water;

and we are at the mercy of other people’s decisions.

It took me years to realise none of these vessels were mine -  or that one of my own might even exist.

But they do.

There are motorboats you can captain yourself. You’re steering. You’re choosing. 

You’re proud of your independence. And through your own determination, you go places.

But the fuel is costly. To travel into the wild is out of the question.

And the engine is loud and drowns out the voice of the sea.

I’ve spent years on this boat and part of me wonders if it will ever be fully decommissioned.

But there is one more vessel, a sailboat.

Not motorised.

Not entirely predictable.

But alive.

Responsive.

Guided by winds you didn’t generate and currents you could never design.

You don’t find it.

You don’t choose it.

It chooses you.

It’s been there all along, a quiet little thing away from the big fancy boats,

loosely tethered to a jetty that’s been slowly rotting away.

And despite appearances, you can trust it is seaworthy.

You can’t board this boat wearing a mask; it only wants the real you.

Brute force won’t work either, only the gentle touch of your heart.

The boarding password, if there is one, infused with humility and courage, might be something like this:

“I don’t fully know who I am or what I want… but I’m following a feeling, an image, an intuition. That lighthouse over there beyond the harbour and the shallows is calling to me, only me. I long to experience the open sea. And for now, that is enough.”

The truth, as they say, will set you free.

We leave the harbour and hoist the sail.

We encounter waves, storms and doldrums, the challenge of which reveals what we are truly made of.

We have the adventure of our life, that is to say, we recognise that which we seek lies within us.

Old identities dissolve. We are changed forever and come back to the harbour to share the gifts and wisdom we now know are ours to give.

And when the adventure calls again, we set sail once more.

Every person I’ve worked with, whether they realise it or not, is somewhere on this map.

Some are still in the harbour, longing for something unnamed.

Some are in the shipping lanes, keeping up appearances, but feeling strangely hollow.

Some are captain of their motorboat, proud and exhausted.

And with some I can see a twinkle in their eyes that reminds me of the wild open sea.

This is not a map of your external circumstances, or a diagnostic of which domain of your life is ‘going well’.

It’s an inner orientation, a relationship to the unknown and the quiet whispers that never stop calling you.

The Soul is only ever on one journey.

So the question is not whether you have a purpose or whether you even need one.

Let that rest.

The question is: where are you on this journey and what’s being asked of you next?

Only you can answer that.

Listen to your grief, your longing, your joy, your aliveness;

your fear and anger;

to what compels you.

And if you can’t hear it yet,

find a quieter corner of the harbour

and look out for those sailing back in

with chafed hands,

salty wet clothes

and a twinkle in their eyes.

In those eyes, you might,

if you get close enough,

see your own reflection.