Effortless
Feb 26 2014
I find my rhythm
I find my rhythm
swimming lengths.
In the repetition
of kick, stroke, breathe.
In measured distance,
muscle memory.
In the meditation
of effort, release.
It's winter outside.
But here it's humid
and a little too bright;
like a forced smile
the eyes betray,
trying too hard
to be cheerful.
An unlikely oasis,
a concrete wall away
from darkness
In the repetition
of kick, stroke, breathe.
In measured distance,
muscle memory.
In the meditation
of effort, release.
It's winter outside.
But here it's humid
and a little too bright;
like a forced smile
the eyes betray,
trying too hard
to be cheerful.
An unlikely oasis,
a concrete wall away
from darkness
and ice.
How it feels to fly,
hovering submerged
looking down at the bottom.
How it feels to die
boundaries dissolving,
water in water
like in like.
Odd molecules
diffusing out,
returning to water
as a lifeless body
water in water
like in like.
Odd molecules
diffusing out,
returning to water
as a lifeless body
does to earth.
As ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
as all we are
and ever were.
An infinite dilution
that leaves no trace.
Or would I remain
in every ocean and lake
and drop of rain?
The homeopathic cure
for losing oneself.
My mind is wandering
through time and space,
the Zen of glide
the measured pace.
Until my lungs scream
hungry for air,
and I break for the surface
gasping for breath.
Body and mind
together again.
I swim daily.
What keeps me coming back are those days when I find that rhythm, and it becomes effortless ...when muscle memory takes over, and my mind is free to wander ...when I feel I could go on forever. And when I do my first length, underwater, and look down at the bottom as if I'm flying. But buoyant, and without the least bit of exertion: the perfect density of water in water, like in like; and therefore not even having to hang from my arms, as even a soaring bird must support itself. I think this idea of effortlessness is where this poem started, and so seems the most natural choice for a title.
The rest of it --the metaphysical excursion into molecules and dust, into death and re-birth --I will simply attribute to stream of consciousness, the ineffable mystery of the creative act. In other words, don't ask me to explain!
This idea of the one great ocean and infinite dilution immediately brought homeopathy to mind. Which is really technical sounding, not the type of word I like in my poetry. So I was most pleased to have come up with "the homeopathic cure/ for losing oneself."
As ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
as all we are
and ever were.
An infinite dilution
that leaves no trace.
Or would I remain
in every ocean and lake
and drop of rain?
The homeopathic cure
for losing oneself.
My mind is wandering
through time and space,
the Zen of glide
the measured pace.
Until my lungs scream
hungry for air,
and I break for the surface
gasping for breath.
Body and mind
together again.
I swim daily.
What keeps me coming back are those days when I find that rhythm, and it becomes effortless ...when muscle memory takes over, and my mind is free to wander ...when I feel I could go on forever. And when I do my first length, underwater, and look down at the bottom as if I'm flying. But buoyant, and without the least bit of exertion: the perfect density of water in water, like in like; and therefore not even having to hang from my arms, as even a soaring bird must support itself. I think this idea of effortlessness is where this poem started, and so seems the most natural choice for a title.
The rest of it --the metaphysical excursion into molecules and dust, into death and re-birth --I will simply attribute to stream of consciousness, the ineffable mystery of the creative act. In other words, don't ask me to explain!
This idea of the one great ocean and infinite dilution immediately brought homeopathy to mind. Which is really technical sounding, not the type of word I like in my poetry. So I was most pleased to have come up with "the homeopathic cure/ for losing oneself."
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