I'm not tracking in much mud these days. At present, I just don't have the heart for it. I feel like a dark shadow of my former self. My furthest trek is now to and from my studio outback. Granted, the grass is not planted yet, so I do have a dirty pair of shoes stationed by the back door, which in a way, makes things feel like old times.
It is that phase of winter that just drags on, the excitement of the holidays has long since worn away, and the monotony of the cold gray skies day after day is spiritually draining. It was enchanting at first, the trees with their icy branches, but now—this dreary, monotone sky is almost unbearable. Even Ember dog feels it; she is restless and spends several hours staring anxiously at her shadow or chasing the few and far between little glimmers of light on the wall. She stays annoyingly close.
I find myself longing again for those Texas skies, where the sun rises and sets with an intense array of colors. And while I am looking back, I cannot help but reminisce about those sunny days behind me - not all that long ago - when I was running through the woods, riding my bike, or swimming in the lake. Instead, I am sitting in heavy fog - every day - and it does not burn away before night. Those brighter days might be on the horizon again, but if they are, I can't see them.
Without vision, the people perish. Typically, a favorite proverb, but currently, it mocks me. In this icy fog, I can't see anything ahead of me. It's all about survival now. And then I worry, if I do survive, will the me that emerges even resemble my old self?
This is changing me; I can feel it. Each bad beat of my heart is a slow and tormenting erosion. The best of me is now a dimensioning return. Despite my genuine effort, what I accomplished yesterday I can no longer obtain today.
I again remember those days behind me when I once spent my summers swimming open water. During the offseason, I drilled in a pool, working hard to roll efficiently from side to side with each breath so I could cut tighter through the water. Excellent training for the pool's clear waters, where one can measure the straightness of their trajectory off the darkly painted lane line. What happens when those clear waters are replaced with a murky, open body of water—wind, and waves breaking in your face? Look down in the water, instead of seeing clearly in every direction with lane lines cradling the path, all that's there is an eerie and consuming darkness, and stroke after stroke it's the same—sort of like this fog.
When unfamiliar with it, swimming in open water's enormity can cause panic, especially when swimming alone. Continuing to propel forward while maintaining sanity often requires considerable focus. Instead of working as an advantage, all that training of rolling tightly side to side often left me erratically swimming around like an idiot, wasting a considerable amount of energy heading in the wrong direction.
It takes a while to get used to the equilibrium of breathing normally while scouting out a direction ahead. For a pool swimmer, it requires a retraining of motor skills. Everyone handles it differently; I liked to count my strokes, breathing on three, changing my breath to look up and out every sixth. It is a delicate balance—looking out, keeping my head above water, swimming straight, still monitoring my breathing, controlling my emotions, all the while trying to swim towards something.
To swim in the right direction, I was supposed to look up. But, taking point from a distant marker frequently made me anxious. Far unlike the sharply painted T-marker in the pool, my open water markers were typically hazy, with a daunting and, from my perspective, unmeasurable distance between us. My spirit never processed well, looking at the end while swimming in the middle.
There is no more talk of swimming—just gray, icy fog, day after day, and a heart that does not beat right. Considering the circumstances of this past year, I am not sure if I can ever find it within myself to put my face down in the water.
This season is dragging on. Stroke after stroke, it's the same murky abyss. And in the consuming intensity of this fog, not even I can make out a marker ahead. Pushing forward requires all my focus.
But Ember and I hike to the studio and back several times a day. A tiny glimmer of light, something to chase, something to hold on to.
She runs back into the house, leaving muddy footprints dancing around my rug and all over the wood floor. I know I am supposed to be angry—scold her or shame her in some way. Instead, I laugh out loud. Ember is a dog. She should celebrate running carelessly through the mud.
My fun-loving, energetic mutt is still in there, and if that is true, perhaps the real me is still embedded behind my weary facade. Maybe the gray skies of today are just like dark water and despite all that has happened, I may remember how to swim in dark water. Or at the very least, I am open to a retraining of motor skills.
Focus. Control my emotions. Set the autopilot.
One, two, three—breathe. One, two, three—look ahead.
