Of course we associated the pool with fun. Nestled amid the science lab, and math department, beyond social studies and English fundamentals, it looked as joyful as summer vacation. So it came as such a surprise when the swimming teachers at Central Junior High, disguised as lifeguards, turned out to be actual teachers, with rules and regulations and lesson plans, along with the added responsibility of having to curb our never ending desire to simply splash.
The worst of it was probably treading water. Here? After doing it metaphorically in the other five hours of the school day, why, why did we have to do it the pool? We wanted to get somewhere, even if it was just to the other end, and get there fast! We wanted to race to the diving board into the deep end, then run around and do it again. But before we were even allowed to use the diving board we had to learn to tread water. First with our arms and legs. Then only our legs. For three minutes. What seemed like punishment was really a gateway. A path to freedom. A way to save ourselves as we thrust into the excitement of the glorious depth of ten feet.
There is such a high when I finish a big portrait. Every stroke that leads to the crescendo and risk of the reveal — it is exhilarating! Exciting! But then what? Then the normal Wednesday comes along and says what are you going to do now? So I open my sketchbook. My steady. My always there at the ready. Waiting. Not flashy. Not for profit, but certainly for gain. First there was thanks to be given. I had noticed a real ease — a comfortable looseness that I had gained when painting the hair of Charles. And I knew that it had come from the countless hours in this book. Page after page. Bird by bird. My treading water. My gateway to the deep end.
It’s easy to dismiss the daily doing. The lessons. The learning. And I’m as guilty as the next person splashing in the pool. But sometimes I remember, like today, how lucky I am to do the work. Stroke by stroke. I smile, and know, that I am saved.