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Rituals at the bottom of the lake
Martyr
wilowisp
Set out early on one sacred Saturday morning to find myself a place to swim. All Saturday mornings are sacred, but the summer ones most of all, rich with tender daylight like low-hanging fruit. I found the open shore of one of our many lakes. The sands were empty and the shallows were clear. This is what I wanted.

I waded in, hesitant against the unfamiliar cold. These have been warm days, these have been dryland days. Up to my ankles, up to my shins, over knee and thigh and hip. I counted to three, pulled my feet from under me, and in the long seconds of the plunge thought "there is no going back now".

The water welcomed me to its embrace. Wet, sensuous movement, languid and knowing. I watched the eddies and currents that formed at my mere passage - whirlpools that spun in their own dance, trickling against sunlight and rest.

I dream often of a special kind of flying, one that is a slow gravity. These are not dreams of flying, despite how I soar. These are remembrances of a thousands of days in the water, I now realize. I feel the space between my limbs grow, elegant starfish and yearning to spread across the world. This is participation in the world. This is ritual

I think I shall go swimming again soon.