For about a year now, I've been thinking a lot about water. About the chaos the ocean represented to ancient peoples, the total absence of control. About suspension within the depths, both literally and figuratively. I hinted at it in this post: hinted at what it means to go deep, below the surface, simultaneously floating but also deliberately diving down.
Somewhere in there is a big story - deep in my writer's heart it seems clear that I'll find my story in the water.
In the meantime, I found a more prosaic way to go meet the water. I finally sucked it up and re-joined my local Y. What took me so long? I wondered this morning. Swimming is an action that lives deep in my DNA, and my body does it without thinking. I sliced my arms into the water, over and over, feeling the familiar burn in my triceps, feeling an unfamiliar burn in my lungs from weeks of inactivity. What took me so long to come back to the water?
“Artists and athletes speak of something called “flow.” When they are deeply involved in what they are doing, time ceases to exist. So does their sense of themselves as separate from what they are doing……..Awareness blooms, as the individual self escapes its confines to become part of something bigger than the self.” – Barbara Brown Taylor – An Altar in the World
This morning, I didn't miss pounding the pavement in my Nikes. Didn't miss the iPod or my playlists. Didn't miss the sweat streaming down my face. I do miss running. I may get back on the road someday, after a long season of healing. But the silver lining has been re-discovering the place where I flow.
The water welcomed me back. Here, it whispered. Here is where you will find your own depths.
|Diving in: Summer 2010|