Pool Musings … Midday

                                                                       Sunday, August 9th

We come down to “our” pool at midday for a swim and some exercise to work out the kinks accumulated over the years and through this pandemic indolence.

Two men, one young, one older, attend at the barbeques on the patio. Corn and some other food are carefully turned.

A man, young, but not so young as the one at the barbeque comes out on a second-floor balcony with a wee boy, maybe 16 to 18 months old. The tosses down some necessity to the barbeque-ers.

After a while of swimming Jeff gets out of the pool. I stay in.

It feels so good to move without any pain. I feel buoyant for that reason more than being held up by the water. My toes begin to cramp; I notice more people coming to enjoy the tasty treats.

I hang on to the stair rails and exercise my cranky, bursitis hip with backward leg lifts before getting out of the pool. I shake out the skirt of my suit to help it to dry.

I hunker down on the lounge beside the one where Jeff is stretched out soaking up some sun.

A grandmotherly woman jogs by our lounge seats outside the fence chanting the echolalic sounds of the small tow-haired boy. They are singing in their own language.

I turn myself over and over – like those cobs of corn on the barbeque, watching the sun’s dance in the water and dream of lazy summer days like this becoming a habit, a routine, a ritual.

Pool poems, swim poems, no-pain poems, bystander poems, summer memories poems, sun’s warmth poems, quiet in the midst poems, letting to poems, bracketing poems, imagining poems. All is poem poem.

After Susan Wooldridge, Poem Crazy


Twice in the past few days I have read similar versions of the following story (which I paraphrase):
“A troubled pilgrim, exhausted from the journey, asked a sage for help. The sage gazed compassionately into the pilgrim’s eyes and after a time he spoke, “I can offer you one of two things – a map or a boat.”
The pilgrim thought a few moments and then said, “I’ll take the boat.”
The gentle sage kissed him on the forehead saying, “Go then in peace. You are the boat. Life is the river.”
I supposed it resonated with me because I was … am … that pilgrim. Feeling unmoored and adrift, I ache for “home” without knowing exactly where that might be or precisely what it will look like when or if I do find it.
Feeling like I don’t fit, I transpose that feeling onto so many people who are rooted in this place. Rooted and complacent in this organization or that group. Sometimes, I resent their unquestioning acceptance that they belong; that they are at home.
But this story reminds me that home isn’t a place … although it very well might be to some. We carry home within as we journey. And life is a journey.
Yes, we are all pilgrims, on a journey; it behooves us to listen to these words of wisdom from David Foster Wallace
“Our endless and impossible journey toward home is in faDSCF1741ct our home.”