the zyx's of life "W" water

these 26 entries from z-a are meant as a tandem collection of short essays.  instead of the abc's of life, i'm writing backwards for two reasons.  t.s. eliot said that to make an end is to make a beginning, which i find true.  that and my grandfather could say the alphabet backwards faster than i could say it forwards.  now that's some wit.

w-water:  the give and take away

"water dissolving and water remaining, there is water at the bottom of the ocean/under the water, carry the water, into the blue again, once in a lifetime/water flowing underground"--The Talking Heads

there's a tide table in my travel wallet.  sure, i can look up the high and low tides on my phone, but nothing beats a fold up map, paper atlas, or water chart that you can use and reuse for your adventures.

because i love water more than i can say--though i will try here--and with that comes equal levels of respect.

water takes.  i have an uncle i've never met and a side of the family that understandably is traumatized by too many hydrogen and oxygen molecules gathered together in one place.

while standing on the north shore of oahu, feeling the sheer force of a wave hitting me mid-calf, there was no way i was going to get in that part of the water.  i watched with a "once a lifeguard, always a lifeguard" glance that also said "i can't watch" as young people jumped into that section of sea.

not only did i attend self-described "church of the ocean" for the better part of a decade, i never turn my back, because the ocean can really dish it in storm season, hitting me sideways and filling my boots.  and the ocean can take it.

how amazing is it to have a buddy with whom you can yell societally unacceptable things into the waves with?  we all have rage, grief, sadness, anger, longing, dreams, wishes, and hopes.  something about screaming them until you are hoarse is really quite cathartic!  standing on a rock in between waves, taking turns yelling and releasing everything into the care of water, then hugging to remember that you are real and you are still here and that even if it's not all ok, you are ok and have someone in your corner.

as i write this while housesitting, the backyard fountain is running.  i've filled it up with the hose and opened the window so i can hear it.  is it any wonder that real estate sky rockets when in the presence of water?

i loved it as a child, the only baby in the mom & tot class who wasn't crying, so i'm told, but instead splashing and laughing. bath water went from quite warm to tepid and then cold because i was enthralled with toy boats, bubbles, and soap crayons.  after i jumped headlong into a hotel swimming pool before i knew how to swim, my parents wisely got me into swimming lessons.

my lessons were at an outdoor pool and swim instructor wore a cherry red swimsuit and had a long thick braid of light brown hair down her back.  instead of a PFD (personal flotation device) i assumed she braided it thus to be used as my personal safety hair because i loved everything except for the relaxation and trust factor involved with floating on my back.  something i would grow to enjoy, but those first lessons saw me pull on her braid for a feeling of safety more than once.  (hopefully she was being paid well for having her hair yanked by a small child).

no surprise i would go on to compete on the swim team, play water polo (our friday reward for winning meets) teach swimming lessons, lead water aerobics, and be both an indoor and outdoor lifeguard.   my hair Barbie shiny from the chlorine, i was a general water rat, more comfortable in water than on land.  feeling, like any aquatic creature, that i would dry out if i went too long without being on, in, or near water (there's a great book on the subject called "blue mind"). 

my first kayaking experience will be on the rogue river with an uncle who is still very much alive, despite being adventurous in the extreme.  my kayak will flip and i will have no idea how to right it, but he will.  the water respect, during those eternal-feeling submerged seconds, being reinforced.  

this will inspire me to buy my own kayak and start logging river miles to see cities and towns as the indigenous people would have seen them, from the river.  charting up and downstream (the highways and freeways that came first) to the cadence of heron flight without a motor to scare them off is bliss.  if you have a paddle, any body of water is open to you and a good breakfast is all the fuel you need.

i can live anywhere as long as there's a bathtub.  the sound of running water is a plus. i've even tried cold plunging and saltwater float tanks, both great experiences.

water gives.

i'm baptized at age ten at our local church.  the pastor, hip waders over his grey sunday suit in the baptismal, is talking but instead of listening i am scanning the congregation until i see them:  mom-dad-grandma-grandpa.  my row of people.

but my fourth-grade thoughts are far from spiritual.  i'm thinking only about how much i don't want to get into the same water as our school bully, also being baptized on the same day.  and i'm pretty sure Jesus might be rolling his eyes in tender pity because the whole point is love.  the pastor seemed satisfied that i understood what i was getting into.  after all, we had made color coded gospel bead bracelets at vacation bible school, sarcasm font.  

i could be thinking about how great it is that the bully is turning over a new leaf based on a change of heart instead of how i might get cooties from being in the same water as him.  but instead it will be sermon and change of clothes and sunday brunch.  it doesn't really mean that much at the time, but i'm told it's a "spiritual birthday", a marker of sorts.  you have to start somewhere.

so up out of the water i come, raised to walk in new life (something i will get to do for others when i'm a pastor and before i recover from church by attending the ocean) and hopefully also play by fair rules in kick ball at recess.  (i don't know the life trajectory of the school bully, but i sincerely hope it was a good one).  

the tide table in my wallet is good for an entire year.  the tiny print reassures me that the tectonic plates and pull of the moon will be an ebb i can count on and a flow that won't overtake the world.  maybe.  

that it will deposit shells and sea glass and bits of crab legs pulled at by marine birds and whisper white noise tales of shipwrecks and mermaids and famous books about whales that i should have read as a lit major but didn't.  and the briny smell of molecules that infuses my lungs.  to walk beside something that makes me feel small in the most reassuring sense of the word.  this element that i will one day, in part, return to and that, for now, i cannot live without. to breathe in and hold my breath, swimming about in the sheer reciprocity of being here.