SWIMMING TOWARDS THE SUN

We come to the pond every week, like some come to church. We swim slowly, taking in the morning light, clumsy with our strokes.  It takes forever to swim across and back, and we love it.  We come out different, a little better than before. 

Our first year swimming through the winter we meet ice. It’s sharp like glass. Breaking it feels good. It heals overnight.  Getting into the water is unbearable, but afterwards we feel invincible.

Some of us were born too wide, others too long. As children we were free, splashing around, doing somersaults, impossible to stop, even with our teeth chattering. But the time came, and we learned how to shrink, taking on whatever shape was required of us. Some of us failed. A few resisted. We had our deal of fun. We worked, we loved, we cared, and in the midst of it forgot who we are. We grew weak and tired, succumbing to gravity. 

Things are different beneath the surface. We are dolphins, mermaids, powerful water nymphs. Weightless, and agile, we are amazed by our bodies. We breathe out light as we move boulders, leaving our darkness in the water. 

We start coming back at night. The geese look fantastical in the dark, lit by our headlamps.  We are magical women howling at the moon, kicking around inside this giant freezing womb. At peace with how things are, we step out strong and new. We glow in the winter sun, and carry our light with us.