Returning Home
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”― Heraclitus
I’m writing this on a pool deck in Scottsdale, AZ at the retirement complex that is my father’s new home, soaking up the desert sun before returning to northern MI. It is a nondescript apartment complex from the outside, consistent with the style of building that is synonymous with Scottsdale. At least to me. The pool is surrounded by the landscaping of my youth. Lantana, yucca, bougainvillea, and brittle bush dot the undisturbed gravel. It’s a few miles northeast of where I grew up and not far from my high school. My favorite part of Camelback mountain, Praying Monk, is visible from my father’s living room. All of this is familiar, yet not terribly evocative of nostalgia or longing for childhood.
The pool, however. That’s a different story. I’m staying in a guest room on the property and wander down to get some coffee. I turn to look outside and see the thick steam rising up from the water. The sun is not high enough in the sky and the temperature not yet rising like a rocket to burn it off. I can barely make out what was on the other side of the pool deck.
The pool. The steam. The pre-dawn hour. That hits me. I close my eyes and took a deep breath. Nostalgia. Bittersweetness. A million memories and feelings that outpace any words I searched for to describe them. These are somatic memories, formed and held in corners of my brain that are far from the parts that form language. I don’t attempt to put words to them.
For years, I was up before dawn and in the pool regardless of season or weather. Swimming was my sport, my thing, my identity. Lightning was the only natural phenomenon that warranted a skipped practice. We’d shed our warm clothes and dash out of the locker room, staring at the steam coming off the water, knowing it was warmer than the outside, yet our minds, at least mine, caused a brief hesitation.
I got in. Always jumping. Never diving, and started with whatever warm-up set our coach prescribed.
The water temperature was never as bad as I anticipated. It was that step off the deck into the water that was difficult. If our brain’s job is to keep us safe, I was putting mine in a ridiculous quandary every morning before 6 am. It took effort to make the decision to get in the water, even if it was a foregone conclusion that I would. I believe my brain was still assessing.
Head down. Arms churning. It was eerie to take a breath and see my teammates’ arms through the fog and steam. Otherworldly. Some may say crazy. Yet we all chose to do it every day. The sun eventually would peek over the horizon, catching the water clinging to our arms in a magical light. Burning off the fog.
It was a lifetime ago.
The sun feels amazing on my face. The air is warm enough now that steam is only visible from the hot tub. The time is beyond when we would wrap up practice. I would be well into my school day by now.
I miss it.
I miss the routine. I miss the work. I miss my teammates. I miss the competition. I miss being that strong. I miss being at the top of my game.
When I stopped swimming, I was lost. I didn’t know what to do with all my free time. For the first time since I was a pre-teen, I didn’t have somewhere to be in the morning, in the afternoon, on Saturdays. Eleven practices a week. That’s a lot of time to fill. What was more difficult, though, was that I didn’t know who I was without swimming. It wasn’t just what I did, it had become who I was. Who was I, if I wasn’t swimming?
Being here, where I grew up, and next to a pool, where I expressed who I was, has me thinking about Thomas Wolfe and never being able to go home again and the saying about never being able to step in the same river twice. It’s true. We live life in one direction. I can’t return to the house where I spent my formative years, nor can I swim as I did again. And honestly, I don’t want to.
Here’s where I have landed as I contemplate time and nostalgia and change on the pool deck—the pool evokes powerful emotions for me because I am still that teenager. She never went away. The qualities, values, and crazy personality traits that allowed me to get up every morning and swim until my arms felt like they were going to fall off have never left me. They are baked in. They aren’t going anywhere. It’s who I am.
It took me a long time to figure out that my identity as a swimmer wasn’t about swimming. Like any external identity, it can be taken away, will come to an end, and is impermanent. Labels and roles fall away. I have worn many—swimmer, daughter, athlete, physical therapist, friend, wife, ex-wife, mom, single mom, empty-nest mom. As I move through life, the labels and identities will continue to change.
But who I am at my core, which manifested itself as a teenager who jumped in the water every morning and afternoon, remains constant. As everything around me shifts and my body ages, who I am, remains the same.
I’m grateful to the early morning steam and the pool for that reminder.
I went right back to highschool when reading this ...You were Kristine but first and foremost Kristine the "swimmer" I had never seen that much dedication in my life...I wish I had just a sliver of that dedication!!!
So well said Kristine. Words have always failed me… you said it ALL perfectly!