Underwater

I have to come up for air

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

When I was younger, I learned that I could hold onto the side of the pool, lift myself slightly, take a deep breath, then gently push myself downward, propelling my body toward the bottom. Gliding swiftly, bubbles percolating toward the surface, then quiet, quiet, almost silence grew as I pivoted to lay flat on the pool floor.

It was all about the altered underwater perspective for me that kept me going back after each gulp of sustaining air. Each minute underwater was an altered sense of reality. The expanse of the entire volume of water in the pool could be appreciated by looking upward toward the far end of the pool. I would let my arm float weightless despite the gallons of water on top of me and with the other arm I would make flapping movements like a one-winged bird pushing downward instead of up.

Despite the fatigue I could feel in my body from repeated trips to the bottom, the appeal of the magical parallel universe just kept me going longer and longer into breathlessness. The feeling was other worldly, caught between floating and sinking, fighting buoyancy. Each series of surface to bottom round trips always ended the same way.

I had to come up for air.

Years later I lost nearly 70% of my hearing capacity in my left ear and almost 50% in my right. An ear, nose, and throat specialist diagnosed me with otosclerosis, arthritis in the bones of the inner ear. Laser surgery removed my arthritic inner ear bones and microsurgery replacement with titanium teflon prosthetics returned my hearing to almost normal functioning.

Although my hearing is restored, it comes at a price. My inner ear equilibrium is altered, making balancing activities, like surfing, extremely difficult, if not nearly impossible. The tiny structure of prosthetic bones, no bigger than a finger nail clipping, is very sensitive to prolonged pressure changes so deep water diving is no longer a thing. Being able to converse is a regained gift, so adjusting to activity limitations is not too difficult.

But I still dive.

I, along with over half of the US, believe that a madman is leading us into a sinkhole of inhumanity. Others cheer his arc of destructive authoritarianism. I believe that I grew up and lived in one of history’s greatest democracies. We were strengthened by our unity in the shared core value of caring for others. We took democracy for granted. I also believe we are living in a time that is beyond that now. Misery seeks company, so I surround myself with critical thinkers who understand how far from democratic ideals we have fallen. Everyday, every hour, something new gets reported and blasted on every media platform I happen to scroll through. Disbelief moves ever closer to total resignation of our descent into cynicism. Someone please stop the insanity. Please.

So I dive.

Nature opens her arms toward me. Welcoming, beckoning, enticing me to follow the paths of healing she lays out for me. Step by step, deeper and deeper into the womb of the forest I go, silencing the anxiety, regaining my balance. Her breezes feather my face, the aroma of shrubs, bushes, and trees fill the air, instantly calming my heart, my mind.

Birds chatter, their conversations loud enough for all to hear, even me with my unnatural hearing. Even though I may be climbing, hearing my breath laboring under the effort, a smile always broadens across my face as I look upward, capturing the scene of what really matters. Eons of life have passed and will pass as nature continues on with the purpose of carrying life forward in a slow, steady unceasing onward flow.

I spend hours in nature, unhampered by external distractions, no headphones, no speakers. I listen to the rhythm of the trees, played by the wind and breeze. I hear the twitter of the sparrows, the louder calls of ravens, jays, and hawks. On one occasion, as I eased my way down a mountain trail, a group of deer clattered quickly behind me, and as I turned my head to see them, they were already beside me, silently somehow galloping down the steep side of the cliff.

I had a moment to marvel at their agility, their silence, their speed undaunted by treacherous footing, as they blurred past me. But the last deer, a young buck, gave me a long side eye. His body was efficient in motion, muscles perfect in movement, effortlessly poised and balanced at such a precarious speed. I was amazed at his perfection, his grace.

He turned momentarily to look me in the eye. My human lack of speed was obviously not a threat to his superiority and with disdain he looked forward again, rejoining the pack, and they quickly, silently, effortlessly vanished. I plodded on, the clopping of my steps reminding me of my human inferiority, returning me to reality. I cannot stay here forever.

I have to come up for air.

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