Posted by Elizabeth

“It’s time you started swimming,” said my massage therapist, a declaration more than a suggestion.  Citing the health benefits to my ever-stretching abdominal muscles, as well as keeping my body temperature cool during these sweltering desert summers, I couldn’t argue.  As the mercury threatens to dip into the triple digits – a rarity in June – I find myself parked squarely under the ceiling fan, dress pooling around my knees, slurping on popsicles.  I don’t have energy for much these days; it took me all morning to gather the strength to make a quick run to the library, a decision I immediately regretted as soon as the sun began blazing through my windshield.  If the refrigerator wasn’t bare, I’m not sure I would have made it to the grocery store this week.  The result of this heat wave has been days that creep by in a hazy mirage, perfectly matching my internal pace.

Although it’s been years since I’ve taken to the pool on a regular basis, I used to be a waterbaby.  My parents made sure I knew how to swim from a young age, and once I was initiated I immediately took to the water.  Growing up in Seattle, a city cradled by waterways, life on the water was second nature; that there are people in this world who can’t swim is unfathomable to me.  I remember wading in shallow backyard pools as fondly as I remember summertime trips to the beach, where I emerged from the icy waters of Puget Sound layered with a thin crust of salt.  I splashed in rivers and streams, dodged fish that skimmed my scrawny legs in bottle green lakes, and crashed through waves on flimsy inflatables tethered to the backs of boats.  I did not wear goggles or sunscreen or swimming caps; the part of my hair was perpetually stained an angry crimson and coated with a fine layer of sand.

When I was in elementary school, my family was lucky enough to join our neighborhood swim club.  I pedaled myself to the club each morning on a pink My Fair Lady Schwinn, my long, stringy hair, streaked with sun and chlorine, flying behind me in a mad tangle as the first rays of sun filtered through the day.  I swam as part of the club’s swim team, a group I joined not because I was interested in the sport of swimming but because it afforded me more time in the water.  I was never very good at swimming competitively.  A bit like Ferdinand the Bull, who was content sniffing the flowers all day, I much preferred the times when I returned in the cool evenings with my dad, where I cannonballed off the slippery edges, leapt from the sandpaper diving board, and raced my dad to the end of the pool.

It’s been 20 years since I swam laps, and those repeated experiences of always coming in last at swim meets are with me as I take my first cool steps into the water.  I swim early in the morning when the pool is quiet and all but empty, having just crawled out of bed 10 minutes earlier.  At first my limbs are clumsy, my strokes uneven, my mind still foggy from sleep, but I push on.  I swim towards the soft shafts of light that filter through the water, casting shadows that dance like a twirling kaleidoscope at the edge of the pool, a beacon that helps relax my mind.  Soon my body slices through the water, gaining confidence, strength, and fluidity with every sure stroke, my legs scissoring back and forth as I cut a neat line down the center of the pool.

But I don’t move quickly.

Although I’ve never been interested in competitive sports, exercise has become the thing I do to keep the scales from tipping too precipitously in one direction, and I realize that it’s with a certain amount of intensity that I’ve learned to approach physical activity over the years.  During the course of my pregnancy, I have embarked on a gradual process of trading down, swapping upbeat dance classes and sweat-inducing strength training with walking, yoga and, finally, swimming.  Now that I struggle to do anything quickly, I have no choice but to surrender to the will of my body, which gently corkscrews through the water, my arms creating slow swooping arches overhead.  I don’t slap the water with my hand, an aggressive move I learned on that swim team to help propel myself forward, but cup the water with my hands, sending tiny trails of effervescent bubbles in my wake.  When I breaststroke I don’t bob in and out of the water, shallow and quick, gasping for breath at the surface, like I was trained to do.  Instead, I submerge myself deep, clearing the water in front of me in long, slow loops, as if I’m pushing a heavy curtain aside.

As I fall into a slow and steady rhythm, I find myself concentrating less on the movements of my body and more on the motions of my mind.  I am no longer counting the laps or the minutes, or focusing on the gait of my stroke.  I lose myself in my thoughts as the water washes my worries smooth and clean.  I’ve forgotten how good it feels to submit to the water:  when I am swimming, there is no resistance.  It is the only time during the day that my body and mind aren’t straining and pushing against an invisible force.  Everything is effortless and easy, a feeling I desperately wish I could transport to my landlubbing life.  It occurs to me that my mind has finally caught up with my body:  neither allows me to move quickly.

Day by day I am transforming my relationship to how I move through the world.  Although my circumstances have forced me into a slower tempo, I discover that I’m happily embracing this new pace.  My weekly yoga class, which months ago I found tedious, boring, and physically unchallenging, has taken on a new dimension.  I move through the poses like molasses, stretching like pulled taffy, with no other goal than to feel good.  Normally one to grow weary and impatient of “relaxation exercises,” I find myself easily slipping into savasana.  My mind, a steel trap that eagerly clamps onto the never-ending parade of thoughts that march rigidly through my brain, is blessedly still.  Like my body in the swimming pool, my thoughts drift and float as I dip in and out of awareness.  Afterwards, I join the circle of women sporting half-moon bellies, cupping spicy mugs of strong chai, in no rush to get home to dinner.  If our goal is to slow down our lives – and who doesn’t seem to have that fervent wish these days? — perhaps we should focus not just on eliminating activity but slowing down the pace of our existing activities?

When I emerge from the water, slick as a seal, I am refreshed, body, mind, and spirit.  I have shaken off sleep and oiled rusty joints.  My mind is alert, crackling with life, ready to greet the day.  With each bubbly breath I have renewed my spirit.  This feeling – that wonderfully mysterious mix of being at once relaxed and energized – is what I want to hold onto always.  Somewhere on the other side of this stage of my life I’ll emerge with a desire to whip myself back into shape after pregnancy has taken its toll and done what it will with my body.  I’ll run, jump, lunge, shimmy, squat, sculpt, and lift myself back into my old clothes against a soundtrack of noisy “you can do it!” music.  I’ll rejoin the personal training studio that brought me so much pain.  Somehow, I’ll find a way to squeeze in all this frenzied activity.

But I hope that I remember what it felt like to move my body in a way that brought me pleasure, that felt relaxing and good.  I hope I remember that our bodies are not to be used against ourselves solely as an instrument of strain and sacrifice.  I hope I remember that, depending on how we choose to use them, our bodies can help us soothe our minds and connect us to our deeper selves.  If I have learned anything from being forced to slow down, it’s that the pace of our bodies matches the state of our minds.  I understand, more than ever, that, amidst all that high-energy activity, I will still need time to move slowly.  Only then can I think slow; only then can I be slow.

In what ways do you slow down your body?  Do you agree that the pace of our minds and bodies tend to match one another?  Do you think slowing down our bodies can slow down our lives?