A light rain falls on a dark-clouded day. The waves pound, the surf takes out the sand built up against the sidewalks. We won't be swimming today or lounging in the sun. I've even brought an umbrella on my walk just in case the drizzle turns to hard rain.
When I pass the pool, it is mostly empty; the few families still swimming are gathered under a pool cabana.
One little girl is stretched out her full body length, floating in the water. The raindrops fall on her wet face. She is completely Zen. Relaxed. Oblivious, yet completely conscious of the moment in which she is still. I stop walking to watch her. She is a masterpiece and becomes an image I can't let release.
I see myself in this little girl. I too have spent copious time floating in water~as a child, a teenager, as an adult, inter-cending into a quiet world of perfect peace.
I love the way the blue rectangles of carpet beneath my bathroom sink form under and cuddle my feet, and the way the memory foam mattress at the beach cradles my body. But nothing forms better than water in which we float. It separates, swirls and flows perfectly into and around our bodies.
Our affinity for floating in water comes, I am certain, from those nine months of perfect nurturing. Muted sounds, gentle wave riding from caresses or bumps. The perfect climate controlled temperature, sustenance, and environment for growth--our first sensual exposure to existence.
Do you like roller coasters? *It is late in Chicago, and if my daughter is still awake, she will be startled by the question. When she was just the size of an apple, when she was bumper-padded safely in a salted-water womb, I was body surfing and met unexpectedly with the curl of a wave. Pounded and tossed, I emerged a little stunned and worried about the child. What did this tiny human feel within? Was she as protected as I assumed?
For the same reason I love salt water, is the possible reason for my love of rhythm. There is not a more familiar sound than iambic pentameter~~boom-boom.....boom-boom...boom-boom. The beat of poets, of lyrical language, the sound of my mother's heartbeat.
*My daughter responds, "Yes I like roller coasters. Why?"