Rectangular Trees
Swim to get better
Some people say they exercise for their chronic illness like diabetes or to lose weight. Today, after feeling groggy and unwell for a few days, I’m softly protesting to J, also softly suggesting we skip the lido. He asks why I’m still going.
I answer bit by bit, getting ready by the door.
One: I’ve booked it. (Shoving my swim bag into the rucksack.)
He reminds me, “Well, we said we’d see how you feel in the morning. You were only going if you felt better. If you feel worse, you’d stay.”
Two: Sometimes I know I feel better once I’m in the water. It could be one of those days. (Slinging on the green pouch for keys and phone.)
“Fine. It might be. OK. Go well.”
“Bye,” I say as I step down to the door.
The wind gushes. I button up my shirt for an extra layer of protection on the ride. Sometimes, it’s not the swim that dampens my big YES—even when I feel ill. It’s the ride into the city. London is flat, but when you’re feeling a bit crap, even the smallest bumps can get you. It’s 30 minutes on a slow ride, 20 on a chirpy day.
I tap my pass, feeling a quiet pride. My bones tingle with excitement for the swim. It won’t be a fast-lane swim—just a “head above water” kind of swim.
I slip into the medium lane. I stretch my arms. The water hits my face—cold. The first sensation is the salty sting of chlorine.
Water feels different today.
When you’re unwell, are your other senses more alive?
My manager asks how I’m feeling today.
The day before, I left work an hour early to ease a growing headache. I went to the lido near work. The staff there are always so kind, kinder than I am to myself.
As if I’m a dear friend, they wave even while chatting to someone else at the counter. They ask if I was away. For some reason, I lie:
“No, just went to London Fields – closer to home.”
They nod, “Ah yes, you said. But don’t forget, this is your home lido.”
I smile, laugh, turn toward the token machine. They rush over with a handful of tokens.
“Oh, we always keep a few saved.”
I’m unexpectedly heartened. Even though I’ve been withdrawing all week, I can’t help but shout, “You guys are so, so lovely.”
“No, you are!”
“Good to see you!”
“Good to see you too!” we call back and forth as I head out to the pool.
“Sorry?” I heard him, but doubted myself. As if work people aren’t supposed to ask how I’m feeling.
I think he felt thrown by my hesitation.
“Headache’s gone,” I say, “but this week, I’m carrying a heavy sensation of grief.”
His face softens—sympathy, and a bit of “oh no, what do I say.”
“So, you won’t stay for the party later then?”
“Probably not,” I say. We both laugh. Neither of us is a party person. We’d rather a good chat in daylight, and honestly, both of us have a lot going on. A party after a big meeting? Last thing on our minds.
After the company’s annual meeting, I head toward the exit. Colleagues catch me going up the stairs.
“Oh, where are you going? Are you leaving?”
“I have a commitment.”
And just like that, the questions stop. They nod in acceptance. I’m surprised and a little impressed.
I meet J at St Bart’s for our monthly evensong. He looks cute in black linen trousers and jacket, with a buttermilk yellow tee. We smile as we see each other.
The service is beautiful. My eyes drift to different corners of the church as the choir sings.
My questions, my bitterness and rightful annoyances, shift. They soften into honest reflection –
How much do I trust the integrity of others?
How much power do I give them over my peace?
Too much, probably.
Even though I know how porous I am. How we all are. We’re affecting each other all the time. Inspiring each other too.
Sometimes the questions point me back to myself. What do I want?
And how much expectation am I putting on others to meet that?
(Thanks, C, my therapist for that insight.)
I’m deepening my understanding of what I want from my art and how to protect and nourish it. The art bowl must stay separate from the money bowl.
But when I dig into these questions, the money bowl starts making demands. Sometimes it spills over into the art bowl. Sometimes, it just spills.
I stare out at the rectangular trees framed by the lido café windows. Mossy green and dark green. No espresso scent today.
I think: I must feel well enough by Saturday each week to cycle here and swim.
To do that, I need to cut out what doesn’t serve me. Give fewer fucks. Say more nos – especially in the money bowl if that’s what it takes to keep the others full.
So I can come swim.
So I can write this, post-swim, with my wet hair and hot shower glow, at this café.
Do you know what I mean?
I write this just after finishing my last sip of matcha latte. (Swapped it for a regular latte, hoping the magical immune-boosting powers of matcha are more than just marketing fluff.)
One a side note, I have been really enjoying reading this book, Make Your Art No Matter What by Beth Pickens. Thinking how I can nourish my relationship with my art, money and job while running my own life taking care of the spiritual life and relationships.
Also been enjoying drawing in the evenings at the back room (work room), mossy green leaves are swinging and the sun goes down and it is so nice!
Anyway, hope you enjoyed reading this and go well!