It's odd to be writing, two years after my surgery, about another "first." But today I took my first swim since then.
Of course, two summers ago, I was healing from my surgery, which was in July. I couldn't have gone for a swim until November. And, of course, I would have swum then only if I had taken a trip to a warm climate or gone to an indoor pool. And I much prefer swimming in an ocean, lake, stream or some other body of water that's a geographical feature.
Last summer, I didn't swim. I told myself I didn't want to swim because an infection I had in the spring had just healed and I didn't want to endanger my recovery. The truth was that I felt fat and didn't want to put on a bathing suit, even if both of the bathing suits I own are one-piece affairs.
But today I rode with a friend to Rockaway Beach. It's not anyone's idea of an ideal beach, but it is on the Atlantic and, actually, not bad. If I wait for a "better" beach, with bluer or warmer water, who knows when I would have been able to swim again?
Some things don't change: I felt the same sort of release--a catharsis, a liberation and an opening outward--I always feel when I spread my arms and legs in waves of water. But, I had two other, seemingly contradictory, sensations: On one hand, I felt like a new dolphin just released into the sea, while, on the other, I felt I was continuing an old dream. Actually, in terms of my current life, that dream is old: I experienced it two nights after my surgery. But it is new, in part because two years ago is really not long ago (unless you are in the fashion or high-technology industries), but also because it was new in the way renewals always are.
Today I came out of the water to a Lakythia, friend who accompanied me there. I didn't know her when I had the surgery, or the night I had that dream. In fact, I didn't know her until about two months ago. But we got on our bikes, and everything felt familiar as it always does when you meet it again.
Of course, two summers ago, I was healing from my surgery, which was in July. I couldn't have gone for a swim until November. And, of course, I would have swum then only if I had taken a trip to a warm climate or gone to an indoor pool. And I much prefer swimming in an ocean, lake, stream or some other body of water that's a geographical feature.
Last summer, I didn't swim. I told myself I didn't want to swim because an infection I had in the spring had just healed and I didn't want to endanger my recovery. The truth was that I felt fat and didn't want to put on a bathing suit, even if both of the bathing suits I own are one-piece affairs.
But today I rode with a friend to Rockaway Beach. It's not anyone's idea of an ideal beach, but it is on the Atlantic and, actually, not bad. If I wait for a "better" beach, with bluer or warmer water, who knows when I would have been able to swim again?
Some things don't change: I felt the same sort of release--a catharsis, a liberation and an opening outward--I always feel when I spread my arms and legs in waves of water. But, I had two other, seemingly contradictory, sensations: On one hand, I felt like a new dolphin just released into the sea, while, on the other, I felt I was continuing an old dream. Actually, in terms of my current life, that dream is old: I experienced it two nights after my surgery. But it is new, in part because two years ago is really not long ago (unless you are in the fashion or high-technology industries), but also because it was new in the way renewals always are.
Today I came out of the water to a Lakythia, friend who accompanied me there. I didn't know her when I had the surgery, or the night I had that dream. In fact, I didn't know her until about two months ago. But we got on our bikes, and everything felt familiar as it always does when you meet it again.
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