Winter Swimming
I opted out of the Saturday invitation to go winter swimming, but the reports back were glowing and sustained through the remainder of the day. “Something happened. I still feel good.” I took their word for it and went with them to try it out the next morning, Sunday morning before church.
Though it’s not the same as winter swimming, taking a cold rinse in the shower tries to mimic the practice. The first time I was invited to try a cold rinse was from a friend of mine who was also, for a time, my Barre instructor. One of the toughest, most athletic, and energetic people I know, Carrie recommended trying a cold water rinse at the end of normal lovely warm shower, and to observe what happened to me when I tried it for a week. I promised that I’d let her know, hoping that I would quickly experience personal transformation.
“How it’d go??” She texted excitedly on my first day.
“It felt like death!!!” I replied back.
Next day, “Did you try it again? Tell me!”
“Yes.” I sullenly replied, stretching my whine across two more texts.
“Still death.”
“I’m not feeling reborn. When does that kick in?”
Yes, I was being dramatic; I prefer to call it “poetic license.” Sincerely, though, I was surprised at how quickly fear clawed at me when the cold water began to hit my skin. It robbed me of the nice memories of the shower. I would count the seconds, trying to stand in it a little bit longer - 8 seconds, 10 seconds. I did it for a whole week; ok, honestly, it was a work week of cold rinses, a solid five days’ attempt at life transformation, willingly shifting my body into the grinding gears of cold water and isolating fear. Intellectually, I believed that the practice was likely a good one. I could have taught a class about it or sold its benefits in an infomercial. Actually living it for five whole days? Maxing out at, like, 23 seconds? Ha! I had no Cold Water Damascus Road experience. I was happily unconverted to the cold water rinse. No, boldly unconverted. When my husband gave it a try a year later after reading a clever article about in The Atlantic Monthly, I offered him no support or encouragement. As a failed convert, I was a self-satisfied nonbeliever.
Winter swimming is, admittedly, a little different, but in truth, the inner work of a cold shower or a winter swim is pretty similar. But I think there are reasons that winter swimming invites me to greater levels of courage than a cold rinse.
Practiced by a people: It’s culturally appreciated here. It’s a sensible thing to do across the culture. That’s not to say everyone does it, but it’s within the realm of ordinary practice. People here swim all through the year in public, in canals and open waters, not just in the wintertime. So they have regular practice with exposing themselves (ha - yes, sometimes they do) to the outdoor elements, to the stones, seaweed, jellyfish, and sand beneath their feet, and even to the wide temperature extremes too.
Not going it alone: It also often practiced not alone in the shower, but with a few other companions. Rarely do people go swimming alone - often one sees a pair or a trio of swimmers, a little group that plucks up its courage and makes it a regular practice of community, not merely self-improvement masochism.
Courage followed by care: Another key feature is that the cold plunge is often followed by the intense warmth of a sauna, and I noted that the place we dunked in the deathly cold was just a few steps from a sauna too. No one advocates for COLD, NOTHING BUT COLD. The point is press your reluctant body, which craves the middle place of ease and comfort, to taste its capacities at the poles of testing, and then to offer it care in repair.
A “We” with Me. Companions were critical. Their testifying to its goodness prompted my curiosity, and their presence and co-risking helped me risk too. Despite my busted attempts to transform from my cold rinse lab tests, there was something qualitatively different about stepping down a pool ladder into a wading pool just off a public dock into 38.4 degree F waters, and standing there for as long as I could.
Pain with Curiosity. I breathed. I paid attention to what was happening in me, the sting of cold and the growing realizing that my butt was already numb. Another of our crew dunked to shoulders. I imitated that courage, and tried to stay in a quiet, middle place for as long as I could. I did not let myself panic, and in truth, I never did. My feet grew numb. In one final act of pressing towards pain with courage, I fully immersed myself, all the way under, and with that final gesture, I got out, and bundled up in a bathrobe.
And, friends, I did feel good. All day long. And it wasn’t just the bragging rights. I felt peppy and proud. Endorphins? Dopamine? Physically, I felt glowy! I would do it again, but I also want to remember what helped me do it too. I knew it might not be transformative in the way I wanted or expected it to be, and but I was surprised how long the feeling of refreshment stayed with me.
**
Reading/listening:
The Fix, by Ian Cron. I’ve been anticipating this new release for a long time. Ian writes with humor, vulnerability, and skill about addiction, especially his own as a recovering alcoholic. If there’s anything I’ve learned about studying sin, it’s that addiction is a pretty decent synonym for it in how it operates in our lives, communities, and society. Ian agrees. As a Christian, he credits the tools of Twelve Step recovery as good medicine for sick souls and bodies, which is all of us. We all have things in our lives that we quietly believe we can’t live without, even though they cause us great harm and rob us of life. Addictions never deliver on their promises, and the deception that we are able to manage them is is best dealt with by - well - learning to embrace cold baths of reality in the presence of others who also take cold baths of reality for themselves too. (see above)
The Emotional Life of Populism, by Eva Illouz. Illouz is a new academic voice for me (one I learned from a fascinating webinar about emotions and politics). Illouz identifies four emotions that drive populist politics: fear, disgust, resentment, and love for one’s country. That particular combination delivers populism, she argues.
After Ten Years, by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. If you have never read Bonhoeffer, or if you are a reader that might not be inclined to read his devotional works, I’d highly recommend this short text — and especially this edition. These are a series of observations that he makes to a few close friends about what he and they had experienced and learned after a decade of National Socialist rule in almost every aspect of life. Some of his most oft-quoted phrases are plucked from this text; the meditations are often just a handful of paragraphs, and then he moves on to another theme. It’s a great conversation starter, a text you can pick up and set down.
A Ray of Darkness, by Rowan Williams. This collection of sermons is a personal library loan to me from a new friend here. I’m immensely grateful for it and for the new friend. Thanks be to God for ample provisions no matter where we are.
Trying a new, old thing in a short month:
On my work days, I give myself a time of free writing, at least 750 words of quick unedited typing. I think of this free writing like practicing scales on a piano, just warming up the fingers and keys. It’s often cranky writing, repetitive, petulant, with reminders and to do list items sneaking in. It’s junk, but necessary beginnings that warm me up for something else.
In February, I’ve decided to go “old school” and handwrite these again. Doing this by hand always feels a little precious, perhaps indulgent. But the month is short. It feels good to scratch across the page again, slowing down when I cannot get the volume and speed that I do in typing, wrestling with my fingers to shape letters and words, and feel my body writing. It’s not unlike a cold rinse or a frigid swim! It’s a small way to keep my body moving - my fingers, mind, and hand - and cooperating with the tool of a pen.
Peace to you in the coming week.