a.m.lap.swim
I try for three mornings a week — if the gods of sleep, weather and will-power oblige. The alarm intrudes into my delicious slumber, but I obey, clumsily dress, brush my teeth, and yawn as I drive downtown in the still-dark, to swim. We’re a motley crew gathered poolside, dipping our toes in the water before fully committing. A silver-haired professor (and world record backstroker), a professional harpist who’s conquered the English Channel, Susan’s husband — a lawyer of mighty wingspan, and a mish-mash of us middle-aged athletes hoping the laps will fend off physical demise.
For me these laps are spiritual exercise, too. A baptism with whiffs of chlorine. My body responds to the repetition, stroke by stroke, kick by kick, a mantra in limb and motion. My mind loosens as my muscles warm; my heart splashes and pumps, just as I too, splash and push forth.
I crave this elemental embrace — just skin, water, breath, motion. That’s all. Life stripped to basics. I guess there’s will, too. Or is it surrender? I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it buoys me and I am grateful, despite lost sleep. I take a quick rest at the wall between sets, and swim some more. Back and forth, 50 meters, 100, going nowhere really, and everywhere.
Stephanie
Susan
Stephanie
Yes, that one sentence about going nowhere and everywhere truly captures the perfection of swimming laps. It makes me want to begin again.
I just followed a link in an email from you to this blog…I know little about this disease but I am moved by your writing and suspect it will be of great help to others. Strength and blessings to you both.
Pebbles are good — move one for each lap — and you don’t have to count. Or maybe you don’t, anyway. Love, Harriet