Cold water swimming
They could never get me out of the water. I would squeal with joy jumping over the chilly waves in the Baltic sea, I would float on my back in the lakes, observing the clouds and tall fir trees surrounding the shore, I would even soak in the tiny forest stream, ice-cold even in the midst of summer. Every Easter we would jump into the stream, often while the snow still covered the shore. A freezing swim to welcome the spring, icy tingling reviving the body, first blooms of humble violets reviving the forest, the symbology of Easter kicking in with full swing. A Christening of sorts.
When everything is in the midst of chaos and change, one thing stays clear - cold water washes away the noise. Leaving soothing quietness where the anxiety has been, and filling that space with deep bright joy. Unfailingly. I would keep forgetting that it exists, as a tool, as a force of nature, as an ever-present superpower. But the world would remind me. My Chilean friend took me to an ice bath on the coast of Britain, my body almost inaudibly screaming the need to get out, but as I reminded my mind that I have done my homework, as I started to breath deeper - long in-breaths, even longer out-breaths - my body settled in. My skin still burning, my mind still sending an occasional alarm, quieter with each iteration - "is it really safe?" - until it became a calm whisper, more reassuring of its protecting presence than anything else. When I finally climbed out of the bath, my body felt light, almost blending into the air, my energy was exploding, and the lady from the nearby space came to tell us to keep our voices down. But my being was pouring beyond the boundaries of my shivering body. "My skin is the only thing that holds me together" my Camino friend used to say, her eyes full of wonder. A state that can be reached in many ways. And this is one of them.
I jumped into cold water as I lost jobs, as I lost trust in people, but if anything, more often than not I would jump in to celebrate life, like our Easter swim back in Lithuania. In Portugal, the first of January marks the ocean swim day. Beaches flood with people as if it was the middle of summer, people timidly stepping into the cool waves or running straight into them holding hands. A massive communal reset of minds, beautifully symbolic, beautifully useful amidst limited daylight and more widespread viruses that winter brings. On the quieter winter days, there is an extra ego kick from being the only human being in the ocean waves, greeted by cyclists and dog walkers as a wonderful alien. When surviving winter feels like the goal, the challenge - at points seemingly insurmountable - the refreshing cold swim flips the narrative, from the challenge to appreciation. The appreciation of having access to a freezing ocean, the advantage that is not offered by summer time. Wintry gifts.
Sometimes all it takes is a cold shower. Which, when not chosen, may feel hellish, but which, when craved, may feel life-affirming. My Chilean friend takes a cold shower outside, in her garden, even on dark drizzly British winter mornings. Cold water exposure is gaining its place along the holy trinity of exercise, nutrition and sleep, along with breath-work that may accompany the coldest swims - long inhales, and even longer exhales - calming down the body and allowing the parasympathetic nervous system to kick in.
I used to love symbolic beginnings and endings - the first day of school, the first day after my birthday, the first day of the new year - and as I have been getting older, these liminal occasions became more frequent - the first day of the month, the first day of the week, the first hour of the day - until yoga and meditation led me to the philosophy of every out-breath as cessation, a temporary death of sorts, and every in-breath as an unquestionable rebirth. Cold water swimming feels like a beautiful reminder of this cycle, every swim as a new beginning.
