I like to sleep. I like to be warm. I like to be comfortable and don’t seek things out simply because they are hard. I don’t dip because it is comfortable or easy. It is not. Sometimes the dark predawn stillness of my home envelopes me like a weighted blanket. Many mornings, I choose more sleep, more time in the warmth of my bed. But this is not about those mornings. This is about the mornings I go.
Last spring, I had a spell of restlessness. An ambient, twitchy, consuming and confounding energy haunted my body, tugged at my spirit, and batted around in my head. An itch. A stuckness. A craving. To change the channel. To light a fire.
I told a friend. She opened a door. Warmly and gently and with a touch of playful mischief, as is her way, she placed an invitation at the threshold. Join us. We are going tomorrow morning. That evening, as I dragged my feet and grasped for excuses, I noticed a new yet familiar giddy nervousness bubble to my surface. Like the night before a race or tournament, I didn’t know what the morning would bring. Just that I would wake up early and do a hard thing. I set out my suit and towel and layers and tea mug. I told my husband and son and set my alarm. There was no turning back.
Remembering that first morning, I can see it. I just can’t feel it the same way in my memory, in my body. A body now changed by all of the mornings that have followed. I slipped out quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping creatures in my house. Driving in the dark, bleary and wide eyed, laughing to myself at the absurdity of it. Pulling slowly into the sandy parking lot as heavy fog muffled the breaking day and mist sat on the water.
A small group shuffled towards one another, embracing in oversized hooded coats. Wide smiles. Warm greetings. Among them, teachers, mothers, daughters, childhood friends, water family. All strangers to me then, other than my friend. Spirited and supportive, they welcomed me into their fold. Into the water we waded arm in arm, the soft warmth of an old friend’s body by my side. As we stood up to our waists in the cold water, I fixed my eyes on another guide; she pointed to her nose with wide eyes and a serene smile as she slipped deeper and submerged most of her body. Breathe. In my own time, I too slipped in and under. I remember giggles and glee, shock and shivering. Wonder.
I had imagined it might be a bit terrifying and uncomfortable and also thrilling and exhilarating. It was. What I hadn’t been able to imagine was that it would be spiritual. At that quiet hour, the water a muted pewter green, the bridge and the day ahead at a distance, a channel changed, a fire lit. I am wild and spiritual and strong. I can surprise myself. Still. There is no turning back.
It’s been three seasons since that first morning in the water, since I stepped through that portal and found on the other side a practice, a congregation, an anchor. The lessons emerge like the resolve that keeps me returning to the water. I don’t have to look for them. Mostly, I just go. I get in. I stay in.