Every winter, I have a tradition.
It doesn't happen on a specific day, but at some point in the earliest months, I make my way down to the beach and walk into Lake Champlain.
As I drift forward, the rocks roll together under my toes, unpredictable as always, but thankfully bare of their summer algae. I always thought it looked nice, worn like a sparse, fluttering coat in the currents of the sun-kissed shallows. Nice indeed, yet treacherously slippery.
But today, there is none. The water isn’t warm, nor sun kissed.
It is cold enough to bite. An electric shock to the soles of my feet.
And still I walk on, letting it get used to me as I tread toward the horizon.
Because I know that with time it will mellow, no longer nipping and sharp, but rather bumping my legs playfully around with its currents, lapping at my knees like an over-excited puppy.
The pins and needles in my legs swell and fade away, until the brush and swish of clothes against my calves feels almost foreign.
This is True Cold.
That’s what I think, as it creeps up my stomach, curls frigid hands over my shoulders, and dips me breathless beneath the waves.
And perhaps it isn’t wise or even healthy, this tradition of mine. But every year, some part of me yearns desperately for it. Because after you’ve committed, after you’ve walked and walked to just the right depth, after you've let it numb you from the edges in and picked up your feet and slipped under, breathing out just enough to sink and then float in the dark, calm waters ...
Something special happens.
Everything stops.
Everything stops, and suddenly, I’m more aware than ever.
There is no whistling wind under water.
No road. No cars.
No birds or dogs or strangers' voices.
Not a single rustling leaf.
No ambient sound at all.
Only the occasional click of stone against stone, and my own pulse rushing like static in my ears.
And the water wraps around me on all sides, like a weighted blanket of ice and silence. Peace and serenity.
Under the waves, it feels like the entire world has slowed to a standstill, and within moments my mind follows suit, completely quiet, almost reverent of this soundless other world.
But I do not belong to this unfathomable quiet, my burning lungs are proof enough of that. I know that I can only catch brief moments of the silence, and so that's what I do.
I rise. Two or three more times, I go up and down, chasing that frigid yet soothing silence before my feet eventually come back under me. Time disappears under water, and when I've finally drawn myself out of the trance enough to look back, it could have been minutes or an hour.
But at some point, I have to return home.
And as I go, my body comes back to itself. My feet begin to ache again. My hairs stand on end. My chest shivers and quakes, thrumming as my heart kicks into gear like the world's smallest generator awakened after a power outage. All rushing blood and stumbling limbs, I make my way home with heat rising to my cheeks. I feel as though I am on two separate plains. My body, which has kicked itself into overdrive and moves towards its set destination, and my mind, still drifting through memories of dark water and silence, slow as molasses.
The door flies open, and now I am standing in the mud room. Frozen in an entirely different way now that I'm where I need to be.
'What now?' my mind whispers, the first thought in an otherwise empty haze.
My mom sees me from the kitchen, and I know exactly how I look. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, standing in the mud room and soaked to the bone. Heart racing and head at a standstill.
For some reason, we both laugh a little.
“How's the water?” she asks, and she knows exactly where I’ve been.
And as I tip my head back, taking in the warm house air like life itself, I feel my chapped, chilly lips stretch into a feral grin.
“Just lovely.”
. . .
Later, I will shower, and feel the last chips of ice flake away from my veins. Burned away by the scalding myriad of steam as I turn the temperature as hot as it can go. But no matter how hard I crank the shower handle, that True Cold, that strange and beautiful silence, lingers in my mind. Days pass, and my body is heat and warmth and all the things it should be. But my head is just another tumbling stone at the bottom of Lake Champlain, enamored with the soothing silence of a still world.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It doesn't happen on a specific day, but at some point in the earliest months, I make my way down to the beach and walk into Lake Champlain.
As I drift forward, the rocks roll together under my toes, unpredictable as always, but thankfully bare of their summer algae. I always thought it looked nice, worn like a sparse, fluttering coat in the currents of the sun-kissed shallows. Nice indeed, yet treacherously slippery.
But today, there is none. The water isn’t warm, nor sun kissed.
It is cold enough to bite. An electric shock to the soles of my feet.
And still I walk on, letting it get used to me as I tread toward the horizon.
Because I know that with time it will mellow, no longer nipping and sharp, but rather bumping my legs playfully around with its currents, lapping at my knees like an over-excited puppy.
The pins and needles in my legs swell and fade away, until the brush and swish of clothes against my calves feels almost foreign.
This is True Cold.
That’s what I think, as it creeps up my stomach, curls frigid hands over my shoulders, and dips me breathless beneath the waves.
And perhaps it isn’t wise or even healthy, this tradition of mine. But every year, some part of me yearns desperately for it. Because after you’ve committed, after you’ve walked and walked to just the right depth, after you've let it numb you from the edges in and picked up your feet and slipped under, breathing out just enough to sink and then float in the dark, calm waters ...
Something special happens.
Everything stops.
Everything stops, and suddenly, I’m more aware than ever.
There is no whistling wind under water.
No road. No cars.
No birds or dogs or strangers' voices.
Not a single rustling leaf.
No ambient sound at all.
Only the occasional click of stone against stone, and my own pulse rushing like static in my ears.
And the water wraps around me on all sides, like a weighted blanket of ice and silence. Peace and serenity.
Under the waves, it feels like the entire world has slowed to a standstill, and within moments my mind follows suit, completely quiet, almost reverent of this soundless other world.
But I do not belong to this unfathomable quiet, my burning lungs are proof enough of that. I know that I can only catch brief moments of the silence, and so that's what I do.
I rise. Two or three more times, I go up and down, chasing that frigid yet soothing silence before my feet eventually come back under me. Time disappears under water, and when I've finally drawn myself out of the trance enough to look back, it could have been minutes or an hour.
But at some point, I have to return home.
And as I go, my body comes back to itself. My feet begin to ache again. My hairs stand on end. My chest shivers and quakes, thrumming as my heart kicks into gear like the world's smallest generator awakened after a power outage. All rushing blood and stumbling limbs, I make my way home with heat rising to my cheeks. I feel as though I am on two separate plains. My body, which has kicked itself into overdrive and moves towards its set destination, and my mind, still drifting through memories of dark water and silence, slow as molasses.
The door flies open, and now I am standing in the mud room. Frozen in an entirely different way now that I'm where I need to be.
'What now?' my mind whispers, the first thought in an otherwise empty haze.
My mom sees me from the kitchen, and I know exactly how I look. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, standing in the mud room and soaked to the bone. Heart racing and head at a standstill.
For some reason, we both laugh a little.
“How's the water?” she asks, and she knows exactly where I’ve been.
And as I tip my head back, taking in the warm house air like life itself, I feel my chapped, chilly lips stretch into a feral grin.
“Just lovely.”
. . .
Later, I will shower, and feel the last chips of ice flake away from my veins. Burned away by the scalding myriad of steam as I turn the temperature as hot as it can go. But no matter how hard I crank the shower handle, that True Cold, that strange and beautiful silence, lingers in my mind. Days pass, and my body is heat and warmth and all the things it should be. But my head is just another tumbling stone at the bottom of Lake Champlain, enamored with the soothing silence of a still world.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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