Treading.

The coolness of the water electrifies my nerves. It’s not particularly cold, but any change in temperature, hot or not, shocks my system to a sharp ache. I push through, tip toe over the sand and rocks closer to open water. Twinges of fire shoot up and down my legs and torso as the salty deep wraps around my bare skin, but it’s nice to be in the ocean again. The aromatic musk of corroded drift wood, subtle scent of sea life, and mix of briny kelp and sunscreen carry me further from the shore. Better judgement tells me not to wander too far, but soon my feet can’t reach the bottom and I’m floating free. Waves ripple, surge and crash, pushing me under. Reminding me I don’t have control. As if I need a reminder. I glimpse my walking sticks strewn across my beach towel as another swell drags me down. I need to get back to surety, but I want to tread a little longer. And so it goes – tread, legs heavy and numb, head barely above the surface, gasping just enough before another flood. This time I stay under. Life muffled and dark for a moment. I rise and breathe heavy, as the ocean, in her rhythmic ease, ferries me to safety. Still a little shaken, I wade for a bit keeping my feet on the ground.

What takes you out of your comfort zone? How has your illness affected your feeling of security and rootedness? In what ways do you push yourself to try things that scare you?