for Corinne
It is always near-freezing,
this high alpine lake where
we slide into oddly blue water,
and bare strangled sounds
tear from our throats
as if our own wildness
is shredding through
manicured versions of self.
I crave it, this scraping
away of everything
that isn’t limbs and gasp
and skin and heart and
wild uncontrollable breathing,
crave the tingling after
the feral laughter, the way
the world slips more deeply into us
when we slip more deeply
into the world.
Posts Tagged ‘swimming’
Wilding
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cold, Corinne Platt, mountains, presence, swimming on August 5, 2023| 2 Comments »
Doing Water Aerobics in the Senior Living Community with Janie Bird
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aging, resilience, swimming, women on June 20, 2023| 6 Comments »
She is over nine decades old,
this woman playing Pitbull
and Taylor Swift. Now run,
she says, and we do our best
to get somewhere by going nowhere
in the turquoise pool.
And she smiles as she tells us
to crisscross our arms, palms facing in,
to scissor our legs as if we are skiing,
to work harder, to make it our best.
I laugh like a child because it’s fun,
this hour when we play in the water,
frisky as ducklings, tender as saplings
inside old trunks, joyful
as old women who remember
how good it feels to be buoyant
as geese, resilient as ourselves.
Why I Take Deep Breaths
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breath, breathing, grief, ocean, swimming on October 25, 2021| 6 Comments »
In this deep sea of grief,
it is hard to trust
my own buoyancy—
great waves break on me,
take my breath away,
I’m submerged by loss,
yet with so little effort
I rise. Just by being alive,
I rise. So I splutter.
So I’m graceless.
So I cannot see the shore.
But my friend reminds me,
there’s no way
that I can do this wrong.
So I let myself be carried
by currents unknown,
and each time I breathe—
I feel myself rise.
With so little effort,
I rise.
When I Need to Remember
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breathing, happiness, lake, swimming on July 10, 2021| Leave a Comment »
Tucked in my mind’s back pocket
is that evening when I ran full speed
off the end of the pier
and leapt fully dressed into the water.
The air in my clothes buoyed me for a moment
before swirling around me like a purple bloom—
and the heavy sun was orange and low,
and the water held me, refreshed me,
stole my breath for a moment,
then gave me back the gift of my breath,
only deeper, fuller, a bloom in my body.
Oh the freedom—how easy it felt to be alive,
to be afloat, to be enwombed by the world.
Everything felt right. Everything felt yes.
Sometimes, like now, when worry polishes my thoughts,
I dip a toe into that pocket and feel the splash on my skin,
hear the water lapping against the buoys, the pier.
Sometimes, like now, I jump in and swim there
long enough that when I return to this chair, this room,
I find the faint lake scent lingering in my hair,
my face still wet.
Swimming to the Island
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged baptism, body, poem, poetry, swimming, water on September 2, 2019| 2 Comments »
I didn’t intend to swim to the island.
Told myself it was just a quick slip
into the water. Told myself I would
rejoin the others soon. But the water
said yes to me. And my arms and legs
seemed to remember then
exactly what they were made for.
Sometimes we’re in service to something
more primal, a voice that says go, go,
keep going, though there’s no race,
no finish line, no prize, no spectators,
nothing but the thrill of becoming
the body’s bright verb. Feel how
the water buoys you, even as your weight
pulls you down, how it shimmers as far as
a woman can swim, how with each
stroke of your dripping arms,
the lake christens you again and again
a child of this very here.
Harriette Buys a Bikini
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aging, poem, poetry, swimming on December 28, 2018| Leave a Comment »
After all, she is going on a cruise
and booked in the Presidential Suite.
Let her daughter laugh.
What does it matter she’s over seventy?
Harriet fingers the thin strips
of nylon, lets them fall like slippery dreams
through her hands, dreams she can catch,
dreams in her reach, dreams she
will share when she’s ready,
and world, she’s just about ready.
At the Pond
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged baptism, poem, poetry, self, swimming on June 22, 2018| Leave a Comment »
It’s no Walden, but it’s cool
and the day is dust hot,
and so I ask my younger self
if she wants to go swimming,
and she grabs the hand of my older self,
and drags her to the pond.
My older self was, perhaps,
more rhetorical than sincere
when she suggested the swim,
but the younger self has already
kicked off her shoes and shrugged
out of her dress. The swallows
wheel and sweep overhead
and all along the pond’s edge
the dragonflies darn through the reeds.
What is it in us that never forgets
how to jump in, no matter
how cold, no matter who’s watching,
no matter what else
we’re supposed to do?
That is the part that is already wet
and otter slick as the older part of me
stands at the edge, still dressed,
in awe of that girl, how she
glitters in the sun, how
through chattering teeth,
she laughs, how she looks
so almost familiar.
Independence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, independence, mothering, poem, poetry, swimming, wave on August 1, 2016| 1 Comment »
The girl with her goggles on pouts when the waves end.
You didn’t stay with me, she says. She holds on to my arm,
as we bob in the clear blue water of the pool. You stay with me,
she says. All around us, the high sun of summer makes
everything gleam. We splash and bob until the bell sounds,
and a collective squeal erupts from the crowded pool.
I stay as I have been told. The waves begin, small at first,
and the girl hangs on. And then the man-made surf
thrashes at our bodies, tugs at our suits. I do not
remember her letting go. I remember watching her head
disappear beneath the wave and her smile as she
emerged on the other side before she dove into the next swell.
From The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged humanity, poem, poetry, sonder, swimming, the dictionary of obscure sorrows on June 24, 2015| 4 Comments »
It turns out it’s just made up, the word sonder.
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows says it’s a noun
that means, “the realization that each random passerby is living
a life as vivid and complex as your own … an epic story
that continues invisibly around you like an anthill
sprawling deep underground.” But it’s not made up,
the realization, as I noticed today at the pool in downtown Chicago.
I swim in a lane with an older man and a young obese woman.
For them, I will most likely always be nothing more
than an extra who showed up on the first clear summer day
after a week of rain, the woman in the black bikini and purple
goggles who shared their wide swim lane. The sun wove its light
through the chlorinated water as we swam back and forth,
back and forth. I would not have noticed them all, except
that there they were in my way and in my lane, though
I regarded them not only with small frustration but also
with growing curiosity. Who were they? What flavor
of ice cream did they like? Who had broken their hearts
and what were they sure they would never tell anyone else?
Were their closets clean or chaotic with hats and scarves spilling
out of uncloseable drawers? Did their mothers love them
or tell them they were worthless? Did they know how to fence? Or weld?
Had they ever been to France? Could they speak another language or sing?
I lived a life with them then, there in our lane where we never
spoke a word, our arms pulling us all in the same direction, toward an end
from which we always returned, though later not one of us would remember
who we shared that hour with, nor would we recall
how the sun shone so brightly, as if it were only for us.
Lap Lane
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged buoyancy, injury, poem, poetry, swimming on June 15, 2015| 1 Comment »
After the long limping spring
comes this clear June day
with its sun and its blue and
its outdoor pool. I slip into cool water
and instantly the gimpy foot turns to fin
and my legs move like nimble legs again.
The pool bottom sparkles and glitters
with noon beaming down in white
fractalled light, and I’m lissome
and lithe and slick and alive
with the pure sparkling yes of it,
drawing warm air into my chest
in huge lungfulls. For a moment,
I do not think in terms of damaged
or whole, I do not think of
this morning’s brokenness,
I do not think at all—
I am kick and stroke and pull
and sun-spangled shine, wild
in love with the dazzle,
the buoyant world that rises
in us, sometimes when
we least believe it can.