Confession. I can't float.
I grew up on an island, spent my entire life living relatively close to the sea- less than an hour's drive away- and yet I was in my mid-20s before I learned to swim.
Still, though I am fairly proficient in the water today, that is to say, I believe I can swim to save my life if I'm swimming a very short distance in calm waters- I never learned how to float.
Now, I know that there is a theory that some people can't float because of relative density, that is if you are lean or muscular with a lower body fat percentage, you'd have a much more difficult time floating. That may be so, I can't argue, but the reason I can't float is a lot simpler than this. I can't float because I can't relax. And I haven't been able to relax because I've had a problem with releasing things and letting go. There, I said it.
And it's not just about swimming either, this has been my approach to life.
Unfortunately, this inability to release has meant that I've walked through much of my life like the glue on the inside of a Chinese fly sticker- acutely sensitive and holding on to things that I really should let go- things that have long expired. Like hurt and anger and some relationships.
And locked in a mental time warp, constantly reflecting on bad experiences, things that went wrong, reasons I felt hurt, etc., I didn't give myself the chance to relax and open up to new and positive experiences.
I mean if I were to compare this attitude to any character in literature, I'd say that I was like Miss Havisham in Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, refusing to embrace the sun and instead staying locked in a room where everything had stopped.
Today though, I took a step towards acceptance and release. After locking out much of the world for years and choosing instead to live as a recluse in a soup of pain, today I took up the phone and I had a few conversations with a few people who were important to me- one, a former friend of mine.
It's been years since we'd spoken. Ours was a simple misunderstanding that had gone on for years- each person feeling wronged- and so there was a lot of hurt on both sides. In our conversation today, which, incidentally, was a very good one, I cried, but they weren't tears of anger or hurt, they were tears of release. We were able to right some wrongs, release some things, throw open some curtains and let some light in.
And by the time we ended our call, I felt lighter. I felt free. I felt like I could float.
Now get this, will we be the same again, revive our friendship and pick back up where things ended? Maybe. Maybe not. I mean, we're different people now, if only for the passage of time since we last spoke. For one, we're older.
And my friends, the older I grow, the more I'm understanding that I cannot walk back into yesterday and that some things, when they are broken, won't ever be the same again. Maybe that's the case with us. Who knows? But that's not what's important. What was important was lighting that lantern of pain and letting it float away.
And as the world moves forward, it's okay to sometimes accept things as they are. Different isn't always a bad thing. One things for sure though. As of the moment of our conversation, neither of us will be walking around carrying any cankerous hurt at the thought or mention of the other. The rest will take care of itself. And so, I embrace whatever the future holds with open arms.
And so, you know what? I'm feeling adventurous. Maybe it's time I try those swimming lessons again. Makes for a nice headline, doesn't it? Check it out: Learning to Float at 40.