By Bethany Harrison, LAC
Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale, Dan Albergotti
“Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.”
(Bergotti, 2008)
As we move into the fall and winter seasons, I find myself thinking about how I respond to seasons of stillness—to being slowed down, cooled off, and drawn inwards for a while. For some, slowing down feels cozy and restorative. But if you’re anything like me, seasons of stillness can feel really, really complicated too. If you have gone through depressive periods—when your body and mind feel drained and exhausted, your emotions feel unreachable, and you hardly feel like yourself—slowing down can feel like you’re losing progress. Or worse; it can feel like you’re going to get stuck again.
By now, you may be wondering—what the heck does this poem about being swallowed by a whale have to do with depression? Honestly, it’s hard to put into words. Here it goes: this poem reminds me of what it’s like to feel stuck. It reminds me of what it’s like to feel completely alone, waiting for the wave to wash over me and spit me out the other side. More than that, it reminds me of what I can do when it feels like there’s nothing to do but hunker down and wait. Here are my thoughts on what to do when you’re stuck in the belly of the whale:
“Measure the walls. Count the ribs.”
Pause. Take a moment to notice any patterns you can see. Have there been periods of your life that have felt this way before? How long do they last? It can be hard to tell from the inside—but there is information to be gathered here. Do you remember how you got here? Do you remember that there have been times when you found the way out?
“Dream of the beach, look each way for the dim glow of light.”
Looking for hope can be painful in these moments. But, it can teach you things about yourself, too. What is it that you hope for, long for, and wish for when you feel stuck? What do those little glimmers of light show you about what matters to you? How can those things help show you the way out?
“Review each of your life’s ten million choices, endure moments of self-loathing.”
Oh, I know this one well. Those nights when it’s hard to sleep, and you find yourself ruminating about every little decision, conversation, or embarrassing moment you’ve had. There’s no sugar-coating this one: it sucks. With that being said, enduring those moments can be a chance to practice holding space for yourself. You are allowed to have bad days; to overreact; to underreact; to be foolish; to be scared. You can offer a kind ear to yourself in these moments. You’re allowed to have lived a real, imperfect, human life.
“Listen for the sound of gears moving through the water, listen for the sound of your heart”
This one can be tricky, especially if you’re dealing with emotional numbness or anhedonia. Listening to your body can be a good start when it’s hard to understand your feelings. Where in your body feels different than usual? Do you feel slowed down, like you’re moving through water? What gets the gears moving again—Your favorite music? Yoga? A hot shower? Your favorite cup of coffee? Talking to a friend? Notice the physical changes that happen when you try things out—even if they don’t reach your emotions quite yet.
“Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope where you can rest and wait”
This is the one I struggle with the most. In these seasons, my body and brain want to rail against hope, against gratitude, against patience. Having hope feels like too big of a risk. If I have one thing to say, it’s this: the thing about being stuck in the belly of the whale is that you have time. You have more time than you think: to rest; to wait; to try; to fail; to try again. You have time to learn how to care for yourself, how to be with yourself, and how to start retracing your steps out of there. It’s ok. Be patient with yourself.
Albergotti, D. (2008). Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale. The Boatloads. BOA Editions, Ltd. https://readalittlepoetry.com/2016/03/17/things-to-do-in-the-belly-of-the-whale-by-dan-albergotti/.