After an 18-month hiatus, I've finally made it back into the pool. My first dip was a humbling experience - two laps and I was gasping like a fish out of water. Who knew breathing could be so complicated? But isn't that just like life? Sometimes we forget the basics and have to learn them all over again.
As I reacquaint myself with the pool, I am reminded of the delicate dance of timing and coordination, like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach while riding a very slippery unicycle. With each lap, my rhythm resurfaces - initially erratic, but gradually settling into a familiar cadence.
Swimming has always been my safe space, my liquid cocoon. I'm that person who always has a swimsuit tucked away in her luggage when traveling, just in case. After all, you never know when you might stumble upon the perfect pool, right? It's like always carrying a book - you're prepared for unexpected moments of bliss.
I swim at 6am. There's something magical about an empty pool. It's an invitation to dive into your own thoughts, much like cracking open a new novel. The water becomes a blank page, and each lap is a line waiting to be filled with musings, ideas, and the occasional "did I remember to send that email?"
Some days, the pool becomes my personal think tank. I solve world problems (or at least decide what to do for the weekend) as I adjust my strokes through each lap. Other days, it's my private cinema, replaying greatest hits from my memory bank. And sometimes, it's just a quiet space to be, letting random thoughts bubble up like air from the depths.
The best part? Time becomes fluid in the pool. Minutes stretch into hours, or is it the other way around? I emerge pruney and refreshed, often surprised to find the world exactly as I left it. It's as if the pool exists in its own dimension, a watery wormhole where only strokes and breaths matter.
As I build back my swimming stamina, I'm reminded that progress isn't always linear. Some days I glide through the water with effortless grace. Other days, I'm more akin to a washing machine on its spin cycle - lots of churning, not much forward motion. But that's the beauty of it all. The water doesn't judge, and neither do I. Each stroke is a small victory, each breath a rediscovery.
So here's to second beginnings, to rediscovering old joys, and to the simple pleasure of moving through water. May we all find our rhythm, both in and out of the pool.
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