Nemo

“Don’t you worry. You’re young. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

Plenty of fish in the sea. That phrase is so odd, and nowhere near helpful.

I know there are millions of fish in there, swimming around beyond my reach. But this one… This one, he flopped right into my lap. Tossed himself out of the waves and wriggled his way into my hands. That’s the fish I’m asking about. Not the ones that are contentedly swimming miles beneath my feet.

What do I do with this fish? That was the question. I only have eyes for this fish right now.

So they start pointing to out his flaws, entreating me to dismiss the idea of him.

“Throw him back; he’s got a gimpy fin.”

“But he could be my Nemo,” I say. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe I’ve found Nemo.”

Perhaps I don’t go about my job the way the other fishermen do. They sort and they classify and they throw them back. If they’re not the biggest and the brightest and the best, they throw them right back in.

Those ones are not worthy. They wasted their time with them.

I don’t believe in wasted time; I believe in sacred moments.

Each fish is something to marvel at. Every time I pull one into the boat, he takes my breath away. There’s something beautiful about the process of catching and holding and sometimes letting go.

Yes, sometimes the most awe-inspiring thing is letting him go.

I look down at this fish in my hands and watch his gills shudder for breath. And I realize he wasn’t made for my hands. No, he wasn’t made for me.

Someone else is looking for Nemo. Somewhere beneath the surface of the sea, they search frantically.

I don’t want to stand in the way of such a beautiful reunion. So with gentle hands I lower him back to the waters from which he came.

“Goodbye, Nemo. It’s been nice knowing you. I hope you find your family. I hope you find your home.”

And while the other fishermen work around me, I watch the waves where he disappeared, wanting a life for him better than I could ever give. I hope he finds it.

I hope he finds it.