For three days in a row I’ve been to the pool, which qualifies me as an expert. All my paperwork is in place and I am now an “active” substitute teacher in the district, ready and raring to say yes to any and every 6:13 am robo call. Last week, I got calls every single day, but declined because Don had just come home and we were catching our wind together and becoming new again. Now that we are firmly established (always have been, actually), this was to be my week to start teaching full-time, anywhere from Kindergarten to Grade 12 Physics. Open and ready for business!
One of the very last things on earth I want to do is be woken up to a recording telling me where to go and what to do while it’s still the dark and dismal night of the Pacific Northwest, so my solution has been to wake up half an hour before, brew some coffee, light the lamps and my little space heater, robe-up, and do some meditative reading in my cozy study.
I planned to start subbing this Monday, but it was Remembrance Day. No school. Because I’ve been teaching for more than 35 years, I didn’t expect to get a call the next day either since teachers are loathe to take a fourth day off after a long weekend, even if their eyes are bleeding and they’ve broken both legs and an elbow in a ski collision, because it just isn’t a good look. So, as expected, Tuesday, no call.
I was prepared on Wednesday and today as well, but the phone remained muted. Interestingly, though I haven’t worked yet, these days have felt like gifts of grace and celebration. A day off? Goodie! How odd, since I’ve been on a sabbatical since last December, and hadn’t framed any of my days not working as such. But this week I’ve made time to go to Canada Services to verify my SIN number, prepare some business cards to hand out in the staff rooms when I finally start showing up at schools, figure out the new outlook system for the district works, do some daily thrifting, gardening and cooking, as well as start a WHOLE NEW routine around my early wake-up.
It’s 9:45 and I’ve already been up for four hours!
One of the loveliest things I have begun with my morning freedom (and may continue to do even when I start teaching more regularly) is heading to the Comox Valley Aquatic Centre. I’d been meaning to go since I arrived at the end of March, but this week I finally graced the building. My swimsuit and towel are presently in the dryer (Yes, I know I shouldn’t be drying my swimsuit, but it’s old and I don’t care.), and I have the entire day spread out before me like a potluck of possibilities. Speaking of which, the second potluck/book recommendation club is being held at my house tonight. Again. Who even am I? I’m deliberating between sharing Imminent, a terrifying book about UAPs (unidentified anomalous objects) or just doing a full-on-fan-girl chat about Annie Lamott. (If you have any connection to her, you’re allowed to call her Annie, even though her books are published under Anne.)
There is a lot of digression here. My monkey mind is acting up. What I really want to say starts here:
Going to the pool is a complete release for me. It’s where I can (ironically) let go of any self-conscious thoughts and say, “Here is my everlasting soul in the body of this nearly-60-year-old woman named Leah Rempel.” Somehow that meta-cognition has allowed me to walk into the warm wave pool on my neon-white stumps for legs, strap a waist belt around my Buddha belly, grab a set of Styrofoam weights, and just BE in the water. Just be.
I smile at the other souls inhabiting bodies, but mostly choose not to talk. For half an hour or so, my one and only MO is to keep moving. I do variations on swimming, usually with the weights submerged and my arms pumping underwater, I jog, I lunge, I tread water, I do jumping jacks. Basically, I do whatever the hell I want with absolutely no inhibitions. It’s ridiculous. It’s fun. It’s absolutely soul-soothing. I’m warm. I’m buoyant. I’m working out my heart and body, but I’m just playing. JUST PLAYING. It’s not until later that I notice my muscles aching in the best of ways.
The hot tub is my final destination. From warm to hot water is nirvana. I position myself directly in front of a jet, close my eyes and do the Thich That Hanh mantra, “Breathing in, I calm my body, breathing out, I smile” for some minutes. Then I stretch like a cat in a way that is impossible for me on land. I feel lithe and alive and so very relaxed. Relaxed and released. These are two words that I am playing with and personifying these days. As I float and swim through my days, I am becoming more aware of the constant-thinker inside me, and rather than pushing these myriad thoughts away, I lam practicing looking at them as an observer and without judgment. I feel what I need to feel. Then I release. I find myself doing this many times a day, especially as the one year anniversary (wrong word entirely, but I don’t presently have another) of Emily’s death looms. Spirit doesn’t pay attention to dates but for those of us left here, it’s hard not to.
Relaxing and releasing. Again and again.
As I left the hot tub today and stepped into the communal shower area, there was a wee pink-bathing-suited girl, straddling the floor like a frog, licking the water puddled under the shower. She was a child with Down syndrome, and she was absolutely, 100 percent perfect. I fell so in love with her, that my 59 year old body that doesn’t feel particularly mobile on land, got down on all fours beside her and just had a full-on love affair with this divine being who was not yet ready to get into the pool.
I wasn’t prepared for such deep emotion and love. I sobbed into my yellow towel for a moment before I began to dry and dress. Mercies. Graces. Beauty. All around us. Even if you have to lie down on a swimming pool shower floor to find it.