Stages of a Winter Wild Swim

My friend and I had planned a swim on Saturday but it took until Tuesday to finally get in the water. The air was 42 degrees F, the water 46. This does not add up to 100, which is the number someone recommended as a guide to “swimmable” water in “tolerable” air, but we had done 88 before and so proceeded. Someone asked me recently why I swim in really cold water. I will try to explain. 

There are three parts to the swim: the before, the during, and the after. 

The “before” includes picking a day and time with my friend; dreading the swim (four days’ worth for this particular swim); getting into my bathing suit, fleece, wool socks, wool hat, and dry robe; dreading the swim some more; making hot tea; driving to the lake; standing at the edge of the lake waiting for my brain and body to get in sync and to decide that at this moment right now…now…now (oh, one more photo)…that at this moment now the “before” stage is over. 

Self portrait of author while author’s hippie-hatted brain struggles to convince author to stay out of the 46-degree water. Shortly after photo was taken, author told brain to “get over it.” (Photo by M.M. Ruth)

Then the “during” begins with accompanying my bathing suit and wool hat into the water, slowly, up to my waist. My friend is similarly clad and nearby, but she moves more peacefully and steadily. We dip our hands in, splash water on our arms, rub our cold wet hands on our faces, look at the lake and clouds and trees. We talk to ourselves and to each other. We say things like, “Okaaaay!” “Here we go!” “We can do this!” And we do. We just drop so that the water rushes over our shoulders. I flip onto my back and kick and paddle my hands like egg-beaters and try to not scream and sing an operatic off-key note but usually fail. That I am in this very cold lake is bizarre. That I am not crying or weeping or miserable is astonishing. That I am smiling and laughing with my friend is a wild and wonderful gift.

Yes, I am very cold. 

Despite my constant thrashing, my hands tingle to the point of discomfort. Is this pain? I am not sure. It’s a feeling. But it’s a sign that if I get out much further in the lake or stay in much longer, my hands—and then arms and legs—will not work well enough to get me back to shore. Keep in mind we are about 30 feet from shore but in water over our heads. We stay in maybe ten minutes then breast stroke toward shore. My friend hands me her wool hat, she dives underwater, and emerges with an even bigger smile. I am not there yet, but soon. I am still seeking and hoping to destroy my idiopathic resistance to putting my head under water.

The “after” of the swim begins when our feet touch the bottom of the lake—about ten feet from the shore—and we lunge for our dry robes, exchange wet suit for dry fleece pants and sweater, and then wrap our hands around a cup of hot tea.  We talk. We warm up. We admire the colors and textures of the water, the reflections of the clouds, the harmony of water and sky and trees. 

As we begin to feel a bit of post-swim euphoria (endorphins? relief? gratitude?), we slowly head to our cars where one of us will undoubtedly say, “That was perfect. We should swim again soon.” We are vague about when. Here in the “after,” I am not quite ready to start another “before”. I think of a stanza in Wallace Steven’s poem, Thirteen Ways of Looking at Blackbird:

I do not know which to prefer,   

The beauty of inflections   

Or the beauty of innuendoes,   

The blackbird whistling   

Or just after.   

At the lake, we do not have to choose. We enjoy both the inflection and innuendo, the whistling and the silence, the water and the air, the during and the after. 

The “after” is a really wonderful time and is in no way sponsored by dryrobe, though they do make the before and after quite pleasant, even toasty. (Photo by M.M. Ruth)

Still on Cloud Nine

Though I could talk about the clouds for days or weeks on end, I had just an hour of pleasant cloud conversation and cloud gazing with Molly Walsh of Thurston Talk last week, in advance of my April 18th talk at the Olympia Country and Gold Club. Read Molly’s article in Thurston Talks here. And then join me on April 18th at 5:30 (socializing) for my presentation (6 p.m.). This event is open to the public! No need to bring your four iron! I’ll have books on hand to sell and sign.

Olympia Country and Golf Club
3636 Country Club Drive NW, Olympia
360-866-7121

Sideways Wins Silver Nautilus Book Award

A Sideways Look at Clouds has just been named a Nautilus Award Winner--a silver medal in the Science and Cosmology category. The Nautilus Awards represent "Better Books for a Better World." Of course the clouds make the world a better place (actually a livable place as a well as a gorgeous place) but I'm beyond thrilled to think my book on clouds could help make the world a better place, too. 

The core mission of the Nautilus Awards Program is to celebrate and honor books that "support conscious living & green values, high-level wellness, positive social change, and spiritual growth."  How can a book about clouds do this?

My book is a hybrid--natural-history, memoir, humor--and encourages every reader to look up and better appreciate the ubiquitous, life-giving, shape-shifting clouds in all their forms. Even the gray blankets that rain and rain and rain. Appreciating the beauty and function of clouds is just one part of my book. Understanding what a cloud is and does takes some grappling with physics, chemistry, and meteorology. What is a cloud? How does it float? What does it tell ups about atmospheric conditions and the weather ahead? What is the role of clouds in the changing global climate? Understanding what a cloud is also means some grappling with what you, the reader, want the clouds to mean.  

When I started writing my book, I wasn't interested in studying what kind of weather a certain type of cloud indicated. I was more interested in what would happen if I began looking up and wondering about something I had taken for granted all my life.  Why did I know so little about them? Why don't we talk about them? What happened happened over eight years--the forging of a profound, abiding connection to the clouds while also embracing the ephemeral nature of the clouds--of life.  The clouds were (and are) for me a source of joy, wonder, comfort, and even solace. As a global natural phenomenon that requires special equipment or access to observe, the generous clouds are there for everyone to explore. There's no cost, no side-effects, no expiration date. 

What you'll notice when you start looking up is that...things are looking up. 

The Way You Do Anything...

NOTE: This is the second half of my story presented at the Center Salon on April 13, 2018. The first half can be read here. Both stories are true and appear in slightly different form in my book, A Sideways Look at Clouds.

It didn’t take long for the euphoria of my hallway epiphany to wear off. I knew nothing about clouds and assumed I could learn what I needed to know by watching them, by reading books on clouds and weather and atmospheric. 

The clouds proved to be overwhelming—in the sky and on the page. There were so many of them—and they were hard to identify. They were constantly changing shape, by the minute, by the hour, and over the course of the day. Their Latin names were difficult to keep straight. Understanding the clouds required a specialized vocabulary, a firm grasp of chemistry and physics, and more math than an English major like me could ever hope to learn. 

My Muse may have sparked the idea for my book, but apparently she wasn’t going help me understand the clouds or figure out how write about them.

I could not find my way into the clouds. I was lost.  I was frustrated. I was ready to give up. Until l remembered what happened 10 years earlier when I had lost my way—literally.

I was trying out a new yoga studio I had driven past many times. It was on the ground floor of a two-story office building that wrapped around a downtown corner. The yoga studio had big storefront windows on both sides of the block. Signs and banners with the studio’s name doubled as privacy shades from the street.

I walked toward the door thatI assumed was the entrance. It was locked. I walked around the corner to a similar door on the other side of the studio. It too was locked. I continued further down the block to another door. It opened and  so I stepped off the sidewalk and into a vestibule. I looked around for signs to the studio. There were none. 

I walked down a dim corridor lined with closed doors of various small businesses, none offering yoga classes. At the end of the hall I found an elevator. I pushed the button to call it. The elevator arrived, I got on. I pushed the button for the second floor. Why not? I stepped out into another hallway with more office doors. It led to another dead end. I started giggling. I walked back toward the elevator, but took the stairs and found myself in the interior lobby of the building, facing the wide open doors to the yoga studio. 

I walked toward a small desk where a woman (the teacher I presumed) sat in her yoga togs and in an aura of calm. 

“Hi!” I blurted out. “I’m glad I found my way in! The entrance from the street wasn’t exactly obvious so I….” 

I recounted my story of the locked doors, the elevator, the hallways, the stairway. She listened patiently but didn’t smile or acknowledge that the entrance was perhaps a problem.  

Instead, she handed me a pen, gestured toward the sign-in sheet, and said matter-of-factly, “The way you do anything is the way you do everything.”

How rude! How dare she? How wise! She was totally right. This, this, this total stranger, this yogini knew me better than I knew myself. 

The way we do anything—and therefore everything—is the result of who we are: our age, our childhood experiences, our families, our education, our friendships, the condition of our physical bodies, the acuity of our senses, our mental and emotional state. Our habits. Our quirks. All of it. 

We each have a unique and idiosyncratic way of being in the world, of looking at the world the lies before us, and of sharing our understanding of the world with each other. 

And so, I year into my study of the clouds, I embraced the truthful words of the condescending-but-insightful yogini. To find my way into the clouds, I would wander and get lost. I would take the scenic route, follow my curiosity, try all the doors, make wrong turns, giggle a lot, go down rabbit holes, hit dead ends, get derailed, find some truth, make some discoveries along the way.

It wasn’t necessarily the best---nor certainly the most efficient way---to write a book but it was my way forward—or sideways—into the clouds.