Gravity and Water

Notes from somewhere near the sea

I could spend my entire life in the water.

And I’m not picky. Give me a lake, an ocean, a river. I don’t care. A cruise, a swim, a scuba outing—all fine, as long as I’m in, on, or near the water. I lose myself in the sound of waves lapping on the shore, the ripples on a breezy day, or in the reflection of the sky and trees when the air is still.

The way water interacts with the world has a way of drawing me in. It settles between things, around things, inside things. It’s heavy (ask anyone who’s had to carry the chicken waterer from the hose to the coop) and powerful (ask anyone who’s ever been pounded into the sand by an unexpected wave), but also it buffers things as small as a duck and as big as a cruise ship from the force of gravity that would otherwise pull them earthward.

***

In January of 2005, I was ready for a change. After nearly a year of eating (and drinking) like a teenager whose parents were away for the weekend, it was time to lose weight and get fit. I did two things at that time: I got out my handy-dandy points tracker from a previous version of myself, and I signed up for the local YMCA.

With a knee that was recovering from its second surgery in 11 months, I had limited cardio options. I had always wanted to swim, and that was one of the only forms of exercise I felt comfortable doing. So I figured out how to propel myself from one end of the pool to the other (okay, but maybe not on the first day) and then increased my distance until I could swim a mile without stopping.

The water has been my happy place ever since. Nowhere else can I shut out all the outside influences and stimuli that bombard me from all sides and just be one with myself and my body. I swim when I’m sad or angry. I swim when I’m happy or excited. I swim when the demands on my time and energy are so overwhelming I am ready to explode.

The back-and-forth rocking of my body, the splash of the water in my ears as I come up for a breath, are my only companions in these moments, my thoughts free to go wherever they like. I’ve worked out complex plans in my head, run through entire albums’ worth of songs, and divided 5,280 by 3 an embarrassing number of times. (The answer is 1,760, by the way, which means a full mile in a 25-yard pool can be swum in 36 laps, or 72 lengths.)

The water also brings me a stillness I’ve found few other places. Before I started writing this, I swam some laps. I was alone in the pool complex, and between laps as I caught my breath I floated on my back with my eyes closed, something I’d never do at a public pool for fear they’d try to drag me out and administer CPR.

My ears were below the surface, my eyes were closed, and my body was suspended. I couldn’t hear the music, or the sound of doors opening or closing or of people needing things from me. My mind was free to roam. It was as close as I’ve ever gotten to a sensory deprivation tank, and I was here for it.

***

I’ve been feeling extra heavy lately, tethered uncomfortably tightly to the ground.

I blame the extra pounds, and the extra obligations, I’ve accumulated over the last couple of years. The state of the world and general existential dread don’t help, either. Every step I take feels more effortful than the last (don’t even mention climbing stairs), and sometimes I just can’t handle being upright anymore.

Most days, after the kids are on the bus and my workout is finished and I’ve got some time to work before my next meeting, I lie down on my belly and work from the floor, searching for some respite of the intense pull of gravity on my bones.

But as often as I can, I head to the water. And there, for just a moment, I can loosen the pull of the world and just be me.

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Suggested listening: Gravity by John Mayer | Dive by Ed Sheeran

Commiserations? Reflections? More music recommendations? Drop them in the comments.