Things To Do in Water

I love to swim.  I swam competitively in high school - my favorite race was the 200 meter freestyle, not a sprint not really distance race either.  The race requires a steady, yet fast-paced stride.  In so many ways, that race describes the life that I want.  I like a fast paced life but I like life to happen steadily not in spurts.  In fact, I plan it that way.  I keep a calendar and I consult it many times a day.  I look to see when there is free time and I fill it with stuff I want to do and stuff I need to do.  I like lists too.  I keep a variety of ongoing lists:  your basic todo list, a shopping list, an idea list for writing and speaking engagements... won't bore you with the others but suffice it to say, there are more. 

My calendar and my lists keep my life on track.  They keep me moving in a steady, fast-paced stride.

My life is a 200 freestyle race... I wish my life was a 200 freestyle race.  

When in relationship with anyone else, chronic illness or not, life doesnt' move at any steady pace.  When dealing with a chronic illness, it's hard to move at a fast-paced stride together.  I could keep a fast-paced stride but I would inevitable leave my partner behind. That wouldn't do really because I married with the intent of having a partner. I wanted to share my life with someone; I wanted someone to share his life with me.  I wanted to play together and think together, love together and learn together.  And so my life seems like it's lived in spurts now.  It makes me insane.

It makes me insane not because Pete is ill.  It makes me insane for two reasons.  First, I cling to my "life as a 200 freestyle race."  Second, when my stride is interrupted, I sometimes don't know how to live with myself .  My current level of insanity is my own doing.

In regards to letting go of the "life I wanted" - I really am working at it.  When I consult my calendar now, I do it with an eye for our life, which includes issues related to living with a chronic illness.  I ask questions like, How much can we actually fit into a weekend and maintain meaningful discourse with others?  or How much rest is needed during the week in order to accomplish my hopes for that same week?  I have learned to embrace the times of day that are for me (aka: the scrumptious steady fast-paced moments) where I can do the stuff I like to do:   writing, cooking, walking, reading.  If I find myself with extra time on my hands with extra energy, I ask for extra Julia time (check out the new pic I put in the about me section to introduce her to you all.)  My friends are wonderful at swimming alongside me too.  They fill my life with fun that sometimes includes Pete but sometimes give me something to do when Pete needs a different pace.

Regardless of my planning and my attempt to keep a certain pace, life is always interrupted.  It's not just from chronic illness.  Some people have reminded me that some of the issues I write about have little to do with chronic illness.  I agree.  And I appreciate the "reality check" that much of what I struggle with is universal and can't be put into the category of "my life is forever changed because my partner has a chronic illness."

Enter second issue:  when life does not function at the pace at which I wish, what do I do with myself?  I'm talking about adjusting my stride to function in relationship to another.  Sometimes my steady, fast-paced stride turns into a float.

And so yesterday I floated for awhile, literally. I'm on vacation in Colorado where there is a heated, outdoor pool.  Surrounded by mountains and aspen trees, I floated.  I'm a good floater.  I remember training to become a lifeguard and having to "rescue" instructors who didn't float.  Did they have too much muscle mass?  Not enough fat?  I'm not sure what makes a person unable to float.  For me it's a matter of air; it's a matter of breathing.

As I floated, I was aware that on my inhale my body rose to a flat even float.  On my exhale, I had to adjust my core muscles while my body sank a couple inches in the water, waiting for the next inhale.  In and out, in and out.  Floating.

It's very quiet when floating.  My ears are underwater and I can hear myself breathing and thinking.  The other voices around me are muffled.  I am alone.  Me, the mountains and the aspens with an occasional bird who is also floating.

My colleagues have used the image of floating recently in regards to trusting God.  I have a good friend who works as an interim pastor.  She leads churches through transitions that last from 1-3 years.  That means that she's looking for a new job more often than others.  A couple years ago, one job ended before she knew if she had a next one.  It was scary.  And when praying together, the word that came to mind for her was "floating."  She needs to float.  Floating taught her to trust in a new way.

Interruptions in life bring my stride to a halt.  And like I said, I haven't figured out what to do with myself.  Rather than float, I tread water, arms moving back and forth, legs bicycling round and round.  In high school when we were in between swimming seasons, we would play water polo for fun.  I hated it.  The ball only moves through three or four hands before someone tries to score.  Most of the game is spent treading water.  It's exhausting and it's boring.

What do I do with myself when my life comes to a halt?  Much of the time I tread water, arms and legs moving like crazy to keep me buoyant.  Interestingly, floating keeps me buoyant too.

Things I can do in water:  swim, tread water and float.  I love to swim.  I hate to tread water.  I am learning to float.