Rest

Rest: a place to float, to let go.

When I was about five or six, I learned to float. We’d usually go to the community pool, but occasionally, our parents would pack us up and take us to a friend’s home deep in the desert. They had a natural pool though the water wasn’t deep, just a couple of feet deep. But it was enough. Here, in the water amid the rocks, my dad taught us to float on our own, taught us to let go of his hand and let the water carry us.

My parents and their friends looked on, nearby. I could hear their laughter until my ears were under water. Just my face showed above the surface. Their laughter was muffled by the water then, gentle, gurgley, far away. The sound of the water, like a deep indistinct echo played in my ears. Their laughter and the rest of the world floated away, and I lost all track of time and place. There was only water.

In my solitary world in the water, no one else existed, I was calm, as if in some dreamscape that made me forget all else, if only for a while. It was restful. I came to love it. I came to love water.

My watery escape today is limited to the shower, but I still relish it. It’s a few minutes away from all the stresses and anxiety that confinement brings. The sound of the water, the cool air from the window, my eyes closed, and my breaths deepen and slow, and rest settles over me, if only for a few minutes.

Once I leave that sanctuary, I nudge myself to breathe deeply again, slowly again, but the day’s anxieties return. So I lose myself in whatever is next: work, writing, videos, books, a poem, a while in the garden, exercise. It’s all an internal escape. an attempt at escape. An attempt to find rest.

You’d think I’d be relieved to hear about states opening up. But I am not. I’m among those who have pre-existing conditions not compatible with the virus. My fear is being exposed to someone who is asymptomatic, someone delighting in their freedom again, going places and sharing the virus particles on each breath with the world around them. This is not a gift for me. A vaccine would be a gift. But it’s a year away, at least.

Until then, I’ll remind myself to rest, to breathe, to stay open. I’ll distract myself and lose myself in whatever comes next. And I’ll comfort myself in water, if only for a few minutes a day.