THE ZEN OF SWIMMING


If I had to specify a religion these days, I’d choose swimming; it’s the one thing I do religiously. I go every day to the old Foster High pool, which, when it was orphaned seven years ago, was adopted by the Tukwila Parks Department. The pool is on life-support due to budget problems, but Robert, the maintenance guru, keeps things working.

I prefer lane number one, to myself if possible, so I can do my Zen of swimming thing -- in search of momentary peace of mind, or relaxation, or inner wisdom. All good stuff this Zen of swimming.

When I mentioned this to someone in the pool she bristled at the word Zen, and, when I tried to explain that Zen was more a philosophy than a religion, and swimming was my time for meditation, she still seemed uncomfortable. “What’s the difference between prayer and meditation?” I asked.

She just shrugged. “I think that prayer is talking to God; meditation is listening for God,” I said. Her hostility slightly mollified, I returned to dogpaddling in my lane trying to listen.

There I sought to merge with the water, with the flow, with the now. I tried to ignore the weather, transcend the water temperature, outswim my chattering monkey mind. Listening, listening, listening.

Listening is difficult when the pool gets crowded. There’s my nemesis,“The Splasher,” whose aggressive swim strokes disturb everyone’s measured laps. There’s the ladies who swim to socialize that arrive in couples or groups who-must–not-be-split-apart; they crowd into anyone’s lane with their chatter, chatter, chatter. In the summertime there’s pods of shrieking children.

Those are the times I get to practice my defensive swimming, and my patience, or a colorful variety of swear words, often in a foreign language. One of the best things about swimming is they can’t tell when you’re crying

At one time when I had a church to attend, it was always a hassle to get there at all. I’d have to get three or four sleepy preschoolers washed and dressed for Sunday school. I almost never felt like going, but was almost always glad that I’d gone.

Swimming is like that for me, especially in the wintertime. “Too dark, too wet, too cold,” – my favorite winter rant, and I never feel like going. But I go seven days a week religiously, and invariably I’m always glad I’ve gone.