Don’t fight the weeds
We begin in water. Floating in an embryonic ocean, our mothers heartbeat the sound of the tides, her blood flow introducing us to the pulse of the currents. In, for most of us, the safest environment we will ever know. And yet, we kick.
I was lucky, growing up so close to the water. We lived near a marsh that lived near a river. The marsh was a galaxy of alien life forms, constantly changing, never completely mapped. Every spring, birds, bugs, and snakes would awaken at the same time that the pussy willows and thousands of flowers surprised themselves to life again. We would play and hide in the long grasses, come home wet and hungry, tired and satisfied, smelling of earth and snakes.
Very occasionally, the river would burst over the banks, and our back yard would become the canoe route in our exploring imagination. We were the voyageurs, exploring a new Canada for an old king. We were Tecumseh, a warrior fighting to keep control of his destiny. We were slaves, running away on the underground railroad, escaping the Americas for the safe haven of Ontario.
The river fed into a lake, a great lake we were told. My father would point out the ships that carried goods from the whole world to us, and from us to the entire globe. He would explain how the current could carry a huge heavy ship great distances, and this power was to be respected. We learned to swim in the neighbour’s pool, but we learned self rescue in the river. Float on your back. Don’t kick when you’re in the weeds or you’ll get tangled up.
As a teenager, I was introduced to the ocean. The salt water was colder than the river, and the salt stuck to me when I got out, and I could float more easily. The bioluminescence of a warm August night was a miracle. Out on the ocean, there is no smell. The smell we always associate with the ocean is the smell of the earth and water interface. No sand, no saltwater smell.
I once had to live inland where the closest lake was at least an hour away. In my despair, I drove around looking for any body of water. I found a pond near a golf course. It was stagnant, full of algae, and it smelled bad. I sat by the putrid pit and cried.
Flowing water removes debris, detritus, disease. Still water breeds illness and discontent. Perhaps we are not meant to be still. Perhaps we should be less like the rock in the stream, worn away by the pressure of the water moving around us, and more like the leaf on the surface, borne away, not resisting, just going with the flow.
One day, as an adult, I was swimming in a lake, and was much closer to shore than I realized. Much, much closer. I started swimming through weeds, and momentarily panicked when my legs became entangled. I heard my father’s voice: don’t fight them, let your legs float, use your arms to slowly part the weeds at the surface. Don’t fight them.
I slowed my breathing, took his advice, and got free. And then stood up in water that didn’t even come up to my thighs. I was too relieved to be embarrassed.
How many times do we go through life, convinced we are being pulled under, that we are going to drown, and all the while, the shore is in sight, the weeds aren’t that thick, and the water isn’t that deep.
All we had to do was stop kicking, and stand up.
