Swimming

I learned to swim in the late ’60s in a freshwater pond in Orleans, Massachusetts. While I loved the lessons, the excursions to Dairy Queen for banana splits were what motivated me—I hadn’t yet grasped that enjoying something was enough. The air on those summer mornings was often cool, and the water was not a whole lot better. Jumping right in became the only option because a slow descent was too painful. When I got a bit older and attended an overnight camp in Wiscasset, Maine, the "polar bear” badge was awarded to those of us who got up before the morning bell and swam between two docks in the cove. Now, if you have ever jumped in the water in Maine, you know it is cold—a flesh-numbing, bone-chilling, and exhilarating cold. Dairy Queen wasn’t an option, so the badge of honor sufficed. It is one of my first memories of the peaceful stillness of the mornings before the world woke up. 

This past year Poly opened the pool before school so a group of us could swim to start the day. Some mornings it was pretty cold, but the spectacular sunrises brought welcome warmth.  I hadn’t swum laps in a long time, and I quickly grew to enjoy the repetitive cadence and the chance to let my mind wander. 

In the year of COVID, it has been essential to find ways to step away, even for a moment, from the constant churn of guidance, advice, and decisions needing attention. Without that time, the big-picture concern for the community’s health too quickly became pixelated into what appeared to be competing, highly personalized, and, sadly, overly politicized priorities. The escape that swimming offered proved to be the elixir that helped slow things down and reassemble the landscape into something more workable. With just a few weeks left of the school, it feels too early to reflect adequately on the lessons of this past year, but the importance of finding stillness persists. 

Be well,
JWB