Swimming is quite literally making me lighten up. In the ways that matter.
Oh, the roundness is staying put, at 47, the days of any weight loss are over. Thank goodness. Nature is making it clear that body changes happen, grey hairs sprout up as metabolism drops and there is no stopping time or the aging process.
Embrace the pumpkin I say, and keep swimming!
Today I took a blustery and wonderful walk with my dear friend, Joy. We both cried at some point, pouring open our hearts as good friends do, shared our sorrow and longings and fears and ended our walk with a masked up hug at Fletcher’s Landing as the wild wind threw white capped waves on the rocky shore beneath fresh blue skies. We threw our hands in the air and howled back at the roaring surf and wild wind, beaming with a moment of delight.
Upon our return to my house, we were looking at my wetsuit and another, discussing which size might fit her. I told Joy my only real concern regarding my own weight is trying to not gain anymore so I don’t size out of my deliciously warm wetsuit. It’s even a soft pumpkin orange on the inside—minus the seeds.
They are not inexpensive and the one I have may just save my life this winter. Two facts that deserve noting.
Yesterday I stood on this same beach, under grey skies, after a chilly and quiet swim south past lone moon jellyfish and a few blue starfish. I told Joy how free I feel when I swim, untethered, held. Supported. My thirst for this feeling, this unending adventure grows stronger and stronger all the time.
Meanwhile, Halloween is around the bend, the election to end all elections looms like the eye of Mordor staring us all down, and just thinking about swimming through the weeks and months to come helps me hold on to hope—my watery touch point of safety, freedom and peace.
Stay in the moment.
Don’t borrow trouble.
The future will be here soon enough. The long, dark days are coming, the freezing rain, and holidays pandemic-style. Whatever that may be. Ugh.
I think daily about my son, a senior, trying to imagine his life, plan his life past high school amidst this pandemic. We talk, we brainstorm, we have no answers yet. And we tell him that’s okay. Really.
Time is at a standstill. Planning somedays feels nearly impossible. We all float about like moon jellies, adrift on a vast sea, eyeless creatures at the whim of forces so much greater than us.
I watch my younger son rise each day, forage for breakfast and amble back to his room to Zoomland. Over and over. He finds a way forward, every day.
Everyone is so tired out. On my good days, my best days, I get in the water. I find clarity there. I come back recharged and feeling powerful, hopeful even. I find more energy to be present for my boys and my husband, all of the people I love.
I want to tell my sons that I know where we are headed. But I don’t. I’m just another moon jelly floating right along with them. Beating heart, suspended, adrift, yes.
But I am also, like them, a starfish. I hold tight to them, my arms wrapped firmly around them, loving them just as they are right now. Fiercely. Unconditionally.
I want them to know that they are enough just as they are, like the waters I visit, they are complete and beautiful and ever changing. They are strong enough to withstand the strongest winds, and they can choose stillness below the surface, no matter how high the waves.
My sons will keep changing and aging just as I am. I hope that they will stay curious and playful, feel loved always, share their love generously and know that I will always try to be the best anchor I can be.
November. I see you. You can wait. We have pumpkins to carve.
Mary Swims 
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