Big Feels on the Lessons I Learned from the Water

6.3

Tahna Bargen-Lema

Jul 25, 2022

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I went to Greig Lake, SK for three days with the intention to write, dance, rest, read, eat, and be in the water.

I arrived on the Wednesday, tired and hot and fighting off a growing sense of doom. I had spent the first half of the week with family who were now dropping like flies from a vicious stomach flu. The latest victim of the illness was my niece who I had been happily holding, kissing on the cheek, and with whom I shared half of my watermelon/mango Dole Whip the day before (she liked mine better than she liked her own, so what was I to do?). Everytime my phone dinged with a new message from the family group chat, I felt sick and faint, like the germs were tethered to me through satellites and phone lines.

When I walked into the Greig Lake cabin – a spot on the water owned by my friend’s parents – I put the phone away. The service was reliably unreliable, and I was determined to make the most of my pre-flu moments. It was hot in the cabin, which meant it was time to swim.

I pulled out my tan-coloured G.A.P. bathing suit, slipped my feet into the plastic sandals by the door, and tentatively made my way into the water.

It was cool, but not as cool as I remember lakes in Saskatchewan being. It was clear and calm. Just some kids goofing off on their dock two cabins down the way. I gingerly stepped from rock to rock until I came to smooth sand, then let my body fall into the soft wetness.

After getting some of my initial energy out with my own style of haphazard swimming techniques, I was struck with the idea that the water had lessons for me. Perhaps enough lessons for each day of my stay. A sucker for the silliness of sincerity, I found a spot where I could stand with the water up to my chin and stretched my arms out wide, asking the water for my lesson.

My first lesson from the water:

The things we love and want with our whole hearts can be the same things that strike terror into our nervous system.

I am terrified to swim where I cannot touch. In a moment, I suddenly doubt any skill or muscle memory my body has. I am at once drowning, even as I am still afloat. It is all so real in my mind, my heart, my gut.

But, I can trust my body. I carry the same skills and memory with me, even when the safe guards are gone. In the same way, I can trust my inner self too.

That night I ate smoked oysters with pickles and crackers. I had a bit of the wine I’d bought at the Co-op Liquor Store. The stolen wifi from the neighbour wasn’t working well enough to use my spotify account, so I listened to my downloaded version of “You” by The 1975 on repeat from my iTunes account.

That night I kept the curtains closed and didn’t sleep well alone in the cabin. I kept jolting awake with no indication as to what was waking me. I thought about ghosts and felt even less inclined to sleep. Finally, I asked my own ghosts to come help me, to keep me company, my grandparents and my brother. I managed to get a few hours of sleep in until the sun was too bright through the crack in the curtain canvas.

I ate a small cup of chia seed pudding and half a nectarine, then braided my hair and went out to the water.

My second lesson from the water:

I am capable of holding fear, and it not consuming me.

I can thank the fear and let it go.

My fear is only an indication of my fierce pursuit of being alive.

My fear is not an indicator of imminent death.

I can hold it loosely and tenderly.

I wrote a lot this day, though most of it didn’t feel good or grounded. I decided that was okay and part of the process. I managed to write this collection of words that doesn’t belong anywhere, but did amuse me,

There is a hole inside of me
the size of myself
I keep swallowing
gulping entirely
turning inside out
bobbing to the surface
still empty

I wasn’t sure if I resonated with the bleak ending of this poem, but I liked the idea of consuming oneself in perpetuity and bobbing back up like a buoy on the water.

I read Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters until I fell asleep, lulled by the afternoon sunlight and vague water sounds through the open window. When I woke, I made dinner: roasted potatoes and brussel sprouts. I ate on the deck, looking at the water. I found a bit of service to text her, saying that I thought maybe my new title for god was The Water.

That night I slept with the curtains drawn: me on the couch, facing the open water. I felt the companionship of the waves. I slept the whole night through.

The next morning, I swam again.

My third lesson from the water:

There is so much good out here for you, but it will all come in due time.

It’s okay to still be dipping baby toes. The water will hold you, the ground is there as you need.

Just because you can taste the vastness doesn’t mean you have to let it all in at once.

It’s still a journey. You are well on your way.

I decided it was time to go back inside. To write a bit more. To slowly start packing and setting the cabin back to rights.

With the water still at my chest, I thought, “Do you love me?”

I didn’t mean to ask that. The spot in my center where the question came from felt hot and in pain. It felt important.

I sat by the water and asked again, “Do you love me?”

I came inside and sat in front of the window, facing the lake, “Do you love me?”

My body felt like it was yelling, even as I stayed silent. I sat with it. I felt it until it stopped. I looked down and saw three big splatters on my faded red sweater. Crocodile tears. I took a picture to remember.