I learned to swim before I could float. Swimming was a controlled movement that offered both protection and transportation. Floating meant sinking, drowning, and dying. It was inconceivable– letting go of my thoughts, my body, and just relaxing. I didn’t feel peace; I felt the water grabbing hold of me with its fluid fingers and swallowing me whole. The chlorine clogged my nose, and my panic crippled my brain. The most I suffered was with one of my many swimming teachers. I don’t remember his name, but I remember his unsympathetic face when he witnessed my pathetic attempts. He laughed at me, and my parents laughed at me. I would latch myself to him inside of the pool, too afraid to let go of safety. He would push me off, again and again, until I learned to treat the water as my friend and him as my enemy. I hated him then, but I don’t hate him now. He taught me to trust the water, and to trust myself. I won’t drown because I don’t want to drown. The meaninglessness of floating on water appeals to me because it requires an empty mind. There aren’t many times when a person can stop all thinking and just feel. The soft caresses of the small waves feel good on my back too.
No comments:
Post a Comment