Deep Diving

Two years ago my beloved husband began swimming again. From ages 6-15 he swam competitively for swim clubs in Regina and in North Battleford, mornings and afternoons, practicing for hours and miles a day. He swam well, too, even swimming against the likes of Olympian Alex Baumann, who finished, of course, far, far ahead of Dean. But as an older teenager he decided that the hours in the pool just weren’t as fun anymore and so he quit the club. By the time we became a couple, Dean had essentially stopped swimming and by his 30s he no longer wanted to swim at all, even for fitness. Frustrated that he couldn’t swim the distances he had as a young person, he stayed away from the water entirely.  

Then, since our move to a city large enough to have an indoor pool, and with the encouragement and company of an enthusiastic, much younger friend, he got back into the water. Now, he swims on his lunch breaks, 1500 or 2000 metres, two or three times a week, and looks and feels great. This annoys me all out of proportion.

Let’s be clear. I’m all for a guy with excellent cardio capabilities and toned pectoral muscles, and I even smile to myself in the dark when he crawls into bed next to me smelling of chlorine and whatever other chemicals go into that water. What bugs me is that, as a working woman with a 30 minute lunch break, it’s just not simple for me to plan a swim time into the middle, or any other time, of my day.  

Start with the hair. Post-swim, mine requires a proper shampoo, a blow dry, and a flat iron (20 minutes), which is in contrast to his brief use of a towel, not even a comb (3 seconds). I still need a bit of moisturizer and make-up before carrying on with my day(10 minutes). Him (obvs), nil. I also need to ensure, before even getting wet, that my legs and underarms are suitably hairless. My guy used to shave down when he raced, but now it’s just not a thing.  

There you have it. Compared to my guy’s easy pool routine, mine would be time-consuming both before and after I was in the water. And that is enough to keep me out of the Kinsmen Centre.  

Here’s where the reflective leap comes from the metaphor to a completely different idea.

This Wednesday, my 59th birthday, will also be the three-month anniversary since I witnessed my aged mother’s death, in hospital, while I held her hand. This death has required from me a higher than average degree of reflection both as a daughter facing a loss and as a witness. I was there for her last breath. What could be more deeply human than this universal experience? What could be more deeply personal than the singular experience of losing a beloved parent? I’ve needed time and space to process both.

And like my whiny story describing why going for a swim feels like a big commitment, so too is making place to sit at length with the thoughts and emotions connected to Mom’s death and her ever-extending absence. It’s usually not a pool I can thoughtlessly jump into or easily pull myself out of to re-engage with my daily routine after a simple towel dry. Yet, in order to keep healthy, I need to do this often inconvenient work. 

So I bravely try to create spaces for what is likely to be a deep dive. Before I release into an unfamiliar world, some intentional preparations are helpful. What can I do to ensure I can still breath while I’m down there? What will allow me to observe what I discover, whether quietly prosaic or unexpectedly beautiful or jarringly monstrous, with clarity? I probably also need to plan for decompression as I reascend to the surface where I work, worship, and interact with my own family.

For all the cerebral metaphor, I’m helped when I remember my body. I sit, tea at hand, in a peaceful location where I won’t be interrupted. After lighting a candle, I draw a deep breath (or four) and release.

Reading gives me breath as I drop into this otherness. Favourite poets such as Luci Shaw or Malcolm Guite help me reawaken to what it means to love and to feel. The Psalms do the same, as do portions of Scripture which affirm the presence of God with us, in still and in storm. “A Faithful Farewell: Living Your Last Chapter with Love” by Marilyn McEntyre, in her honest and gentle reflections on the approach of death, has given me words and imagination for those final days with Mom. “Ah,” I nod. “I see.”  

In this space of awareness and clarity, I pick up my iPad to record thoughts and insights in my journal. Some days I tap out only frustration and disappointment at my discomfort with daily challenges. The journal is a safe place to notice these. Last weekend, I read Marilyn’s reflection about the end of eating and drinking which precedes death – which triggers a vivid memory of my mom’s experience. I record the author’s first-person prayer from page 68:  “Bless me now, Lord, as I begin to fast while others eat the food you have provided. Thank you for the many meals I have shared, and the love around those tables. Deepen my hunger for the spiritual food of your Word and Sacrament as I prepare for your heavenly banquet.” Someday I will read these words again and remember their consolation.

The words that stirred up these deep emotions in me become a segue to my own prayer. From today’s place of consolation, or yesterday’s sting of envy, or simply the comfort of being able to name what I feel, I speak it to God. I speak it or simply feel a warmth of Presence as the tears rise and my body feels ever-so-slightly less tense. The way it feels to float from pressure and dark waters up, up to the surface where fresh air and the sun wait.