Hot-tub Breathing

Our landlord unveiled a hot-tub. It has always been there; only now it works. In the space underneath the raised, second-story deck sits our hot-tub centerpiece, flanked by shelves of tools and cob-webbed patio furniture.

Carly and I broke it in last night. Dark; shivering; bare feet on patio cement; lift off the heavy lid; whispered, "Shhh!"; "Can you see?"; "Here it is"; eyes adjusted to darkness; climb; sink into warmth.

The jets hummed.

We talked about past elations, and heart-heaviness, and wondered out loud at how things might be. Carly listened, and prayed for me, and we stayed until we knew we couldn't stay any longer.

Monday was a stressful day. That time in the hot-tub with my dear friend was just what I needed.

Today was even more stressful. Grades for the quarter are due this next Monday, and I feel absolutely buried-- I feel overwhelmed. At one point today, when staring at my to-do list, I felt like I might start crying. I have no idea how it's all going to get done.

The day's one promised respite was a yoga class I planned to take with Deidra. My frantically beating heart would finally begin to calm, I thought, once I stretched out and worked my body.

We got to the studio and found out the class was already full. Thwarted.

So:

after getting home,

I went out to the hot-tub instead.

I sank into warmth; rested my head against the edge of the tub. Underneath the water, a light shone into the stirring and made a tiny rainbow swim beside me. I looked up at the sky, which was partially visible beyond the corrugated metal patio ceiling.

Cold air.

Quiet.

One tree trembled with brown, dried leaves, and I thought, quivering. I looked at the trees opposing it which had nothing left and I thought, threadbare. A tiny spider twirled from one of the rafters, increasingly silhouetted against the sky in the fading light and I wondered at the way things were.

Cold wind buffeted my face and hair. Dry leaves skittered across the patio. The evaporating water left nibbling, cold, chlorine kisses against my face.

I prayed.

The closest thing I know of surrender, I think, is the feeling that comes when sinking into deep water, when every muscle is finally-- finally-- allowed to relax. In the hot tub then, I let my muscles and my mind drift away from me. The cold air, the warm water, the skittering leaves, and the quiet voice somewhere deep in my heart spun together in a hum of rest.

You are safe. Be at peace.