November 10, 2021

There is a lot of rain falling down, down, down these days. And a lot of wind.

Every day more leaves twirl and spin earthward, glistening with rain, rainbow colored, each one a perfectly formed postcard recounting the brilliance of summer, the stark blue skies, the happy swimsuits and boats and the warm scent of seaweed and salt air on the breeze. And now, November and daylight savings has begun, the light fading fast with the last leaves, merging with the dark earth to start the cycle again.

The heaps of decaying leaves piled in corners and along muddy trenches I know I will see again, reformed and reconstituted next year in the tides of spring, recast as seaweed and fresh batches of jellyfish, baby crabs, and hopefully more starfish.

I walked my dog the other morning in the pouring rain, and listened to the river fall from the sky. Like the sea, the rain touches everything, turning dirt dark, giving a glossy glow to fallen leaves, drawing mushrooms from the earth and washing everything light enough to float back into the sea. Daytime temperatures are now staying consistently below that of the Salish Sea.

The water runs in circles, sky to earth to rivers to sea to sky and back to earth again.

I haven’t been back in the sea for over a week, but instead found myself again at the local pool yesterday. A long overdue visit to the chiropractor revealed that my back and left hip muscles aren’t so happy. I have been having low back pain after my cold water swims for some time, and now am struggling with tingling down my left leg, hip to toes. Cold water has aggravated my already tight muscles to the point that my back muscles are locking up in the cold water, and at the end of my swims I can’t bring my knees forward without pain.

So yes, sea swimming is on hold for me right now. At least for a little while. The 80 degree pool water followed by the jacuzzi are proving beneficial in another kind of way and I find myself again feeling gratitude to have access to a nearby pool with warm water, kind faces and old friends.

I miss the sea. But my stretching regimen and warm water swims this past week are feeling like the right choice. I know the sea will wait for me, but I am trying to listen more to my body and not push my luck. My chiropractor didn’t say I couldn’t sea swim, but he did say that warm water and heat is probably most beneficial right now. My body agrees.

I have loved the thrill of swimming solo out there in the open water, the expansiveness of the wilds, the wind, the waves, the wild life found only there.

But the pool has revealed itself as a place for me to do some much needed healing, and letting go, and revealed itself as another kind of wild space. Easing into the pool water is providing an instant relief of a different kind. There is no recoiling, no zing of chill, no muscles shrinking and shortening. The warm water is a different kind of salve, the company of strangers and lifeguards providing me with quiet support that I think I’ve been needing, and brought my awareness back to the grand diversity and beauty found in my fellow humans.

The pandemic forced me to step away from the pool, the only place I knew how to swim any distance. When I tried the open water for the first time over a year and a half ago, I didn’t know how it would change me and challenge me, and I learned to swim a distance there too. Swimming in nature, exposed to the elements has helped me realize my own strength, my need to test myself alone.

Returning to the pool now has opened my eyes and heart to some of what I missed. I missed the people, the steadfast support of the lifeguards, the wildness of other humans.

And yesterday, as I sat for a short soak in the jacuzzi after my swim the wildness of life came in a completely bizarre and unexpected form—a tornado warning.

A crackling message over the pool’s loudspeaker broke the quiet hum of the pool deck, instructing everyone to immediately head for the locker rooms. A tornado was brewing to the north and the weather service instructed that everyone seek shelter.

A few quizzical looks and comments passed between strangers and friends as everyone heeded the warning and smartly shuffled to the locker rooms, dripping and surprised.

Lifeguards and staff joined us in the windowless room, as women stood and sat in groups or alone, waiting. The wait was predicted to be a half hour.

I looked around and found myself thinking about how surreal the tornado warning felt, as the Northwest is not exactly high tornado country. That said there was a deadly tornado several years ago just an hours drive away, so I knew it wasn’t impossible.

This sudden surprise got me thinking of all of the ways people are forced to hunker down for so many reasons, and how minor and benign this interruption was, compared to what it could be—and is—for people every day, be it natural and man made disasters, or worse yet attacks.

The half hour of suspended time in the locker room was like a pause button, a chance to reset, and for me a gift.

I said hello to my mom’s neighbor, an elderly Cuban woman usually sporting a smile as wide as the day, who stood alone and looking serious, wrapped tightly in a towel. I stepped over to her and pulled my mask down as I said hello, reintroducing myself.

Her stern look melted into a big smile when she saw me, “Oh hello! Of course I know you! These masks make it so hard to recognize people!” She exclaimed, followed by a knowing comment to reassure both of us i think, “I’m okay. I’ve done this before. I lived in Houston!”

I thanked her for telling me and headed back to finish dressing.

Two ladies sat one bench over, smiling eyes over their cotton masks, twittering like happy school girls, in blue and white stripped swim suits. One woman wore a navy blue old style swim cap, dimpled and rising high above the crown of her head like a stretched balloon, the white chin strap dangling down and swaying lightly as she laughed and carried on a lively conversation with her friend.

I wanted to talk to these strangers, share in their joy.

“You two look so cute in your matching stripes!” I offered with a wink.

They both looked at me, then each other, both laughing bashfully with my unexpected compliment. I had remembered reading about happiness, and strangers awhile back. And thinking about how we find humanity and happiness when we open ourselves to talking with strangers.

It’s risky or can be, as to do so requires allowing oneself to be vulnerable. This was a low risk place to strike up a conversation with strangers, two cute older women sitting on a bench smiling, all of us bound together waiting for a possible (but very unlikely) threat to pass. Their smiling eyes were an invitation, and they had a infectious glow about them that I felt hungry for. Like me they were taken by a young toddler who wiggled happily nearby in his patient mother’s arms.

All four of them were by far the happiest lot in the locker room. I too felt content, having just enjoyed a good swim and thankful that the tornado warning arrived post swim. Other attendees to this unplanned event looked less than thrilled, having just showered and prepared to begin their pool time.

I am grateful for all of the watery places I am privileged to visit. The pool and the sea water came from the same sky. Both bodies are givers of life and release, support and healing.

The tornado never materialized, and we were all relieved. I had briefly considered an open water swim before arriving at the pool, and was glad on many fronts that I had heeded the advice of my chiropractor and my stiff back and visited the pool instead.

I hope to see my new old lady friends with the smiling eyes again when I return to the pool.

And when I do get back into the sea, I know it too, will give me a warm welcome.