Treading

A guided meditation in deep, warm water: the kind you drift out into without deciding to, until your feet stop finding the bottom. It's about the effort of staying up — the treading you've done so long it passes for rest, and the one thing you've kept raised above the dark the whole time. It doesn't rush, and it won't hand you calm. It asks what you decided you had to keep above water, then lets the water do what it does when you finally stop.

Best met lying down, with quiet time afterward.

Transcript

Let your eyes close. You are in warm water. Out pass where the bottom is. The swells lift you and set you down. Lift you and set you down. And your feet are reaching for a floor that is not there. So you are treading. One hand fanning the water. The legs working slow beneath you. Your face kept the air. You drifted out here. Not all at once. A little further each time the water pooled. Until the sand was gone and this was where you were. You are good at it. You have been doing it so long it passes for rest. Take a breath. Feel how it lifts you. Feel your chest and you ride a little higher. Let it out, And you settle back down. Your breath's been doing that the whole time. Under all the work. The top of the water is warm. The light lies flat across it. All the way out to where you can see. It is on your face. On your shoulders. Where they break the surface. Look down. Just under the water. The hand that's sculling is there. Live through it. Pale and a little green. Fanning slow to keep you level. The other arm you cannot see. It's up. Out of the water. It has been the whole time. And it aches. Notice how long you have kept this up. The staying up is old. It started somewhere you could not. Remember. And never quite ended. Now the other direction. Under you. The water goes down past the lights. A few feet down it stops being warm. Further than that, It stops being anything you can see. Below that is the deep. You have never been there. You keep your face up to the light. Feel what your legs are doing. Reaching. Every kick is a foot feeling for a floor that isn't under you. You are treading over the whole dark drop of it. This is what you brace against. The deep. The not knowing what is down there. Some part of you decided. A long way back. But if you stopped. You would go down into it. So you never stopped. And you have wanted to stop for a long time. The warning is right there. Under the work. In that arm that's been up the whole time. Feel it now. There is something in the hand. Kept out of the water. The way you carry a thing over your head. To keep it dry. You could not see it. You don't need to. You can feel the arm. The ache of keeping one thing up. While the rest of you work to stay level. So, A hand raised. Don't look at what's in it. Just feel that it is there. And that you have carried it a long way. One question. Say it once. Let it sink and don't follow it down. What did you decide you had to keep above water? Not what's in the hand. The deciding. The moment you took it up. And swore you would never let it touch the deep. Try one thing. Just for a breath. Stop sculling. Let the legs go still. My back into the water and quiet. You don't go down. The water came up under you the second you stopped pushing it away. It holds you now. The whole length of you. All the way you have spent so long keeping off the deep. You float. You didn't do anything to float. You only stopped. The treading was the only thing that ever tired you. And the deepest still down there. Cold. Unchanged. You just can't fall through it. The thing you were sure would swallow you is the thing underneath you now. Holding you up. The hand is still up. The water will take that one for you. I can't reach it. This one you have to give. So give it. Let the arm come down. Open the fingers. Lay what you carried onto the water. It doesn't sink. It rests there. Beside you. The way you are resting. And it is weightless. But keeping it dry was the only weight it ever had. Set down, It just floats. Close enough to touch. Asking nothing. You will go back into shore. Not yet. When you do. You'll wait the way you came. The bottom rising to meet your feet. The water handing you back your weight a little at a time. What you said on the water comes to. Beside you. Wet now, And none the worse. Feel the way it returned to you. The chair, Or the ground. The floor taking the load the water carried for a while. The air on your skin, Cooler than the water was. The deep is still out there. It always will be. You know now what it does when you stop. Float as long as you like. When the floor has your full weight again. Open your eyes.