Baptism by Fire

and anticipatory attachment, perhaps

It feels like we are having some real winter weather this last week, and I have been grateful for it as my family has been stuck at home since Thanksgiving. It’s been a treat to see snow falling gently out the window, and to go outside and make a snowfamily when we finally had the energy.

Over the last two weeks, we all tested positive for Covid, and it hit all of us pretty strong, especially Tim and I. The sickness meant we had to miss out on a number of things we had looked forward to, which for me included my friend Alyssa’s “Fire Flowers” event where I was meant to read an essay written for her release.

I was grateful to still be able to be a part of the event, even if in a slightly different way, by sending over a recording of me reading the essay. I heard positive feedback from all who attended, and now I am considering adding an audio portion to my newsletters moving forward. It is something I have considered for a while, and this has given me the motivation to give it a whirl! What do you think?

The full essay was about my recent cold swimming habit and the sense of community that has developed out of it. The essay wanders through a number of vignettes that take place at Lake Michigan, each story with a unique sense of connection to other humans or the water itself.

The excerpt below is the beginning of the essay, and I like the imagery it provides, the idea of being viscerally connected to place. I am also including the recording of this segment of the essay. I hope you enjoy listening to it! My apologies for the slightly stuffy sound of my voice; recording while sick has its challenges. I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

Gathering, for Warmth

An excerpt from my essay “Gathering, for Warmth,” written for Alyssa Smith’s “Fire Flowers” collection release.

“The rite of swimming enables us to endure many things through a communal call-and-response of story as well as practice.” - Bonnie Tsui in “Why We Swim”

I.

I meet a group of women on Wednesday mornings to swim. We began to gather in September, which may be considered an illogical time of year to strike up friendships that revolve around getting in Lake Michigan. Yet October came and still, we met, bringing blankets and winter hats, our eyes a bit more wild each week, the conversation a little more free.

By October, there was a shift in our experience, as well as our commitment to it. The water temperature dropped under 60 degrees Fahrenheit in early October; by the end of the month it was in the high 40s. I learned quickly to tell the temperature of the water by the way it feels on my skin, noticing that when the temperature is near 60 degrees, my body feels relatively comfortable. Under 60 degrees, I begin to feel pins and needle pricks on my skin, and my mind considers retreat. Under 50 degrees, the sensation is stronger: fire, I imagine. Scalded skin pulling away from bone. And yet, I cannot stop going.

It is the first day of November when I take my first sub-fifty-degree plunge this year. There are four of us, and Ashley brings a pool thermometer so we can track the temperature. I know before she checks the number that it has dipped below 50 degrees. My body reacts strongly, a “baptism by fire,” I have heard it called. I walk in slowly, guided by companions who feel much less chaotic than I do. If I were alone, I would run in screaming, willing my body to feel as little as possible. If I were alone, I wouldn't go in at all. But with these four next to me, I walk slowly, knowing my only destination is here, wrapped in this body of water. I feel the pins and needle pain in my thighs and belly and look to the others for direction. They breathe in, so I do, too.

Ashley throws the thermometer far out; a finish line for us to walk towards. “Just keep walking,” she encourages, and I focus on my breathing as I continue placing one foot in front of the other. My eyes lock on the eyes of my companions. We walk slowly, calmly, together into the discomfort.

Whatever sensation the water evokes lasts only a short while. A minute maybe, and then the shock response settles; the body knows that, for now, at least, it is still alive. We stay in the water for three, maybe four minutes, until we agree that it is time to get out and warm up. We strip in the wintry wind; sweaters over swimsuits that are then peeled off as quickly as possible. After that first cold dip, we ran up and down the shore to warm up. Generating more heat, laughing and dancing in the sand as the sun poked out of the clouds.

I haven't really committed myself to winter swimming (though my recent purchase of neoprene gloves suggests otherwise, and well, this entire essay which may in fact be an ode to it), but rather, just one more week. I have lost count of how many “just one more” weeks I have jumped in already.

Our swim group has now grown to six, and in the early morning light that finally spills over the trees by mid-morning in November, we shed coats and sweaters in the sand. We are all smiles, and I can only imagine what someone stumbling upon our ecstatic group would think. What religion is it that calls them into the waves on these cold mornings; what god requires such devotion? The worship of the elemental.

II.

I recently heard of a man who after swimming in various Arctic bodies of water was studied by scientists because of his body's unique reaction to cold. It turns out that even before getting into cold water, his body temperature increases, a phenomenon called “anticipatory thermogenesis.” His body is so attuned to the cold water that it begins to warm up before he is immersed. Another phenomenon I learned of–we warm the water around our bodies with our movement, so as I settle into the cold water, I move my arms and kick my legs, imagining it makes a difference.

I have lived within walking distance of Lake Michigan for five of the last seven years, and in that time I have noticed my body become physically connected to the lake. That feels hyperbolic to say, but perhaps the arctic man and our movement in water proves: we are affecting each other, the water and I.

I have walked down to Lake Michigan countless times and found the permission to feel the wild rage or swelling sadness I could not express elsewhere. Standing next to a body of water whose temperaments affect everything in proximity gives me the space to yell and cry and laugh. After a breakup (or two), after a move, after a friend's death. The shoreline has offered a container to hold every complexity that bubbles out of me. Now my body knows when we are on the way to the water's edge, I feel it in the way my shoulders relax, the sense of knowing that pervades as I turn west off Lake Street, closer to the water. “Anticipatory attachment,” perhaps; my body responding to the place it is known.

Swim Club

I will keep this thread updated with swim club details. Tomorrow (Wednesday, December 6) we’ll be at Glen Haven at 9am.

I hope you all have a great week, and that your body is able to relax somewhere where you are fully known. If you listened to the audio, let me know in the comments if you liked it, and if you’d listen to me read more in the future!

Cheers,
Mae