Wednesday, May 9, 2012
I used to let all my air out and sink to the bottom of the pool when I was a kid. I pretended I was a shark, not a minnow, and lurked about. Other times I sat recumbent as if in a lounge chair with my hands clasped over my belly. I did some of my earliest meditating underwater, deafened by it and isolated, until I had to come up for air. The moments were brief but I'd string enough together and was satisfied.
Or if we were at the lake I'd wear a mask and dive in the murky green, and position my face inches from the bottom to see the shells. I brought them up, brown, ugly, caked with pond muck and the stench of sulfur. I collected them on rafts and sand castles and pretended I was Jacques Cousteau. I dreamed in a world of my own making under the water where it was quiet and I was alone. I had some of my biggest adventures at the bottom of Lake Lucerne.
Two days ago I rose at five a.m., then again yesterday and today in search of the bottom of the pool, those shells in the lake and the girl that once believed she was a famous oceanographer. I looked for her at my little desk in the office, perched in front of the computer until my right shoulder pinched. I moved to the window seat where the light was dim and my knees ached. In the early morning haze of half-awakedness I put thoughts on screen. The ones that ramble and race when I run, or vaccuum, or do laundry. The ones that won't let go of me. The repetitiveness of the mundane and pre-dawn grogginess lulls me like water.