When I was pregnant, I decided to take Hypnobirthing classes. I wanted to have a drug-free, natural, calm delivery, but I was terribly, deathly afraid of pain. (Still am.)
During the guided meditation, J would read the script instructing me to go to my happy place. (The language was a lot more effective, I must admit.) Every time, in both birthing practice and my labor and delivery, this was my happy place:
Floating in the large blue drink of the lake in New Hampshire where J and I grew up. And, like happiness, it’s temporary, impermanent, perfect and cyclical.
On days like today, a horrid March afternoon that was blustery and cold, I cannot wait until the height of summer, until we are back in the fresh liquid silk of the lake. We take off our sandals on the beach, the hot sand grainy beneath our feet, and wade into the water, tenderly stepping over the rocky floor, the water rising higher and higher up our legs.
Then the moment of choice: the water laps at our knees, our hips, our bellies. To dive in, or not?
The cold water shocks our hot skin, almost burns for a moment, but this feeling quickly gives way to refreshment. Our bodies buoyed in the water, suspended in time like the center of a marble. Blue above, blue below. This is summer at the lake. This is my happy place.