#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
. . . Swimming is like a prayer:
palms join and part,
join and part, almost without end.
Excerpt from "On Swimming" by Adam Zagajewski
My running shoes are soaked from days of rain so I do my best to dry them a bit with a towel and then wear them wet out into the fresh but cloudy morning. The weather app has predicted a warmer day, a sunnier day, it’s hard to imagine that this might be a swimming in the pond day as I run with Charlie through the woods for five miles. It’s a poetry workshop morning, and my Thursday workshop, now every other Wednesday workshop, is helpful and invigorating. I get some helpful, appreciative feedback on my poem. And then I have work to do for my monologue workshop and then to write and send my monthly newsletter which involves being blank for awhile and wondering if I will get it sent at all as I think about what I might say to make it worth sending. Blank, blank, blank, searching. . . and finally, an idea prompted by a Margaret Atwood quote which grabs me:
Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.
I get the newsletter written and sent. I’ve been at my desk so long; I wonder if it’s warmer, is the sun out?
Yes, in the yard, it’s very warm. But cool in the shade. Frank is done with his work. We go together to pick up the special one and then stop at Farm Pond. I have worn my bathing suit—just in case. But I am pretty sure I won’t swim. But, here we are. Glass smooth, the pond. I take off my shirt and pants, still doubting I’ll go in. It has rained for days, since the last time I swam. But I am here. I will at least dive in. Or not. But yes, I do. And a few strokes, and it’s very cold/warm, it’s perfectly pleasant, it’s wonderful, really, and the sun is on my head, I’m swimming in liquid glass and so I take my time and a great swim, and enjoy every minute of this surprise. It’s no colder than it was last week, and feels warmer. The maples turning red leave a beautiful blurry reflection on the blue pond. Soon enough, while making the roasted vegetables for dinner, the after-chill wears off.