Wade in the Water

Each morning I cross the bridge to reach the cove where I swim. Each day, each moment in the water is different.

Some days there’s a wind blowing from the northeast and I wheel my arms as I power through the white caps. I laugh sometimes because I’m taking such a beating. And there’s nothing to do but put my head down and plow into the force the ocean is offering.

Other days I glide out, carried on a current that registers only by the ease and speed with which I cover the distance between buoys. And some days, I swim into a current on the way out–and surprise! the current has shifted and I get to swim back into the current.

Today the bridge was wrapped in fog. The water that greeted me was flat. The fog and the water mirrored each other: grey, still. These are some of my favorite days to swim.

As a college athlete, as a war correspondent, for so many of my years on earth, I was competitive, driven by ambition and a sense of inadequacy. I don’t bite on that lure anymore.

Now I swim for fun. For joy. In meditation. In wonder.

When I slide into the water, it feels like an anointing. The water has something to teach me today–everyday, if I pay attention.

One of the hardest things about this pandemic is the separation from friends and families: the rigor of “social distancing.” We are asked to stay apart, to stay safe.

These pandemic days and months have separated us. My father rushed to the hospital with a life-threatening illness. My aunt confined to a 30-minute window date at her assisted living facility.

We taught my father to FaceTime from the hospital. We encourage my aunt to wave at her window. We find ways to connect.

Today, in the water, I listened to what she had to teach me. When I cannot hug a person who’s in pain, when I cannot hold the hand of someone who’s afraid, I can listen. I can be present.

As fog settles on water, I, too, can rest in that still space.

Between the tears.

Between the sobs.

Between the held breath and the stifled cries.

In that distance that separates us lives a holy space, a sacredness.

Between each breath.

Between each word, when the words arrive, like ripples, slowly, on the still water.

Between each breath, listen.

Between the words, listen.

Between the tears, hold still.

Between the sobs, hold still.

Hold that space.

And the water will hold us.

And remind us that we can stay close even when we are apart.