October 17, 2021

“Oh the leaves on the trees they all bow down to you—branches and ranch hands are bowin’ too—and i’ve taken off my straw hat for you—singin’ here comes the sun again”

From ”Here comes the Sun Again” by M. Ward

Songs on water. I guess it’s really no surprise to me that tonight after my first swim in ten long days, a song—a happy song—popped into my head as thoughts like maple spinners whirled to the edges of my mind looking for a place to land on the puddle that is this essay.

I am happy.

I feel truly happy tonight. And this song and my swim and playing music are all converging right here, with me upon my blue couch, flanked on one side by our dear mutt who lays peacefully near me on his bed, his fuzzy belly rising and falling like soft waves while my guitar hangs warm to my left, notes still hanging in the air. And I know both are waiting as patient as the water for more strokes.

Best of all, my beautiful youngest son just gave me a kiss and hug goodnight, his smile wide and sweet, telling me that he didn’t mind if I played a few more songs as he settles in to sleep.

Sleep. No wonder we do so much healing in our sleep. That magical time when breathing finds a steady rhythm, and our bodies fall into the background. In the bay today, half way done, as my hands and feet began to ache a bit from the chill I started to lose my rhythm breathing. So I turned my attention to the dull, muted sound of my feet pounding through the water. I was the instrument, I had rhythm, I had my (heart)beat and I had space like the air around a song to travel through the bay, back to the beginning. I could make it home if I focused on my inner rhythm.

Today as I finally “ripped off the bandaid” as they say, and returned to the cold water, I was reminded of the boldness and blind leap one has to make to open up and sing for others. Like swimming there is a required blind faith one must put in themselves to manage the whole lot, stay afloat, avoid danger, stay calm, face the audience and try and have fun in the process. Both can feel like a lot of pressure if not handled properly.

Performances and cold water swims can both start rough, turn rough or end rough and sometimes do as there is real work in getting everything to match up—voices and chords and a relaxed body and a confident posture, an open chest, the instruments tuned and a willingness to be vulnerable. Exposing oneself to the elements, or sharing one’s heart through a song takes courage and a letting go that is unique, and usually leaves me wanting for more.

Getting back in the bay today was a little like those first performances seven year ago, as I lowered down the roots into the still green water and the rush of cold took my breath away leaving just nerves and a tight throat. I have worked hard to wrestle these things into submission with lots of practice and lots of time. And today my wetsuit helped too.

At worst, with the initial launch– into cold water or on to a stage– the mind goes blank, you can’t remember your name, the time or who is making you do this thing, you doubt yourself, fear you will fail, fall down or lose your clothing, and all the while you know deep down that the place you find yourself in is entirely your own fault.

At best, you find your rhythm, put your focus outward, let go of your fragile ego and some need to “prove” something, notice the beauty around you and the gift you’ve been given to sing (or swim) and remember that when it comes down to the swim or the performance, the beings around you whether human or just a passing seal, just want you to succeed.

I’m not done practicing.

As I walked the muddy road down to the bay, my neighbor drove by and rolled down his window to tell me “I just don’t know how you do it! That water must be so cold!”

I was relieved with this last opportunity to stall—I’d been practicing the art now for ten solid days straight–practically a pro and terrified that I had lost my nerve to return to the bay ever. A fellow swim friend of mine, after reading my last post, even half-joked about an “open water swim intervention”, offering to bring his wetsuit and help coax me back in, as he clearly understood the loss I was feeling and my frustration with trying to get back in as the fall temperatures continue to drop. I appreciated the thought but was glad that I was able to intervene on my own behalf. I couldn’t stall any longer.

As I waved goodbye to my neighbor, he kindly called out, “Be careful. Don’t drown!” I thanked him and continued on my way.

He wanted me to make it to the end of the song. He wanted me to make it back safely.

My dear friend and music partner, Larry, once told me that the job of the performer is “to serve the song.” My worst fear of all on stage is not finishing a song. I’d rather have my voice crack or sing the same verse four times over then cut a song short.

My swim today was like a song. I knew the route, had the lyrics of the bay snugly tucked in my head, allowed myself to feel a little vulnerable but also prepared myself as much as I could, just like practicing for a performance. I swam the circumference of the bay as dusk came, passing by golden leaves and twigs upon the still water, and with chilled fingers turning white I grabbed ahold of the exposed roots and the frayed rope dangling down the muddy bank, delighted that I had made it the end. I had served the song, and saved myself.

I have found a comfortable place within myself to sing and swim, love and be loved.

And that makes me very happy.