Yesterday, between shifts at the hospital, I went swimming at the nearby fitness center on campus. Swimming has become a vital practice for me in the New Year as a form of both mental and physical self-care. The feeling of moving my body in the water helps me release the near constant noise of stress and overwhelm I feel these days and to focus only on my next breath, my next stroke. When I arrived at the pool yesterday, there was no one yet in it. But there was still a lifeguard on duty. For a time, it was just me and the lifeguard and there was something strangely intimate about having one person watching over me as I swam my laps. Thirty years ago, I trained as a lifeguard myself. And I could remember all the effort and skill it required to be able to stand at the edge of the pool and, mostly (you hope), never have to use your skills. As I continued to swim, I felt myself relax even more as I realized I was being watched over—cared for, in a tangible way—while I swam. 

Since I started swimming again in January, I am remembering ways of breathing and moving in the water that I have been long out of practice doing—including turning on the wall. More than once, I have mistimed a breath, snorting or choking on a bit of water as a result. In addition, a couple of years ago, I had a scary bout of vertigo which meant my body felt like it was spinning even when it was still. I could not tell up from down. So I still have fleeting moments of trepidation about turning under the water because of that experience. But yesterday, knowing there was somebody watching over me who would be able to help me if I needed it, I was able to relax in the water—turns included—in ways that approximated, for the first time since I started swimming again, the ease with which I once felt able to make those turns at the wall when I was young. And I began to think about the times I have sat vigil next to the bedside of someone who is dying and connected the act of vigil—this practice of watching over—to what it felt like to receive that gesture of care in the water. I wondered if this is what it might feel like, at a different scale, of course, to be at the edge of death and to not be alone, to have something offered as tangible as the lifeguard(s) had given to me: the feeling of safety to be able to let go.

What was helpful to me to see, too, is that the lifeguards would change their posts every 15 minutes or so. In the hour I was in the pool, and as other swimmers joined, three different lifeguards stood guard. It validated for me how intently they were focusing on their task at hand—to the point that they needed to change their posts on the regular, presumably so they will not lose the edge of their capacity to be present. It likewise underscored for me how much it requires to be present for another and why the hard task of holding presence for others must be done in connection to others who are likewise prepared to stand watch. It takes a lot to be present, to stand watch for someone. There is an enormous amount of preparation, training, and teamwork involved in what appears, sometimes, as standing quietly at the edge of the water.

May we each know the power of our own presence in this time, respect the energy it requires, and remember we are part of a community of care who takes turns. And may we all have access to the supports we need as humans to feel safe and cared for, to know that we will be caught if we fall, to trust we can let go.