Dress for the Water, Not the Weather

This is an excerpt from the weekly News-Loveletter. If you would like it sent to your inbox directly (with all the other juicy bits, including a mini joy practice), you can add yourself to my mailing list here.

I shove my foot into the black hole and wince as I yard the neoprene into place. One leg in, one to go. A jerk, a groan. Both legs are now encased like blackened sausages to my knees, and I begin to tug in earnest. This farmer John wetsuit, clearly designed for a man, has zero give at the hips.

I gasp and wobble, nearly toppling onto the bed while Seda suppresses a smile. “Is it always like that? Or did it shrink?”

A valid question to ask a woman over 50. If you’re wearing body armor. I nod my forgiveness.

“It’s,” I say, puffing and pulling.

“Always,” gasp.

“Like,” grunt.

“This.” I exhale hard. Victorious, I stretch the arm hole over my shoulder and fasten the Velcro on the other side.

I’m the only woman in a wetsuit on the river today, and I’m not sorry to be exceptional. The temperature of Spring Creek is 40 degrees Fahrenheit, 6 degrees Celsius. After 5 minutes of swimming around in my wetsuit, my bare feet threaten to fall off.

I have Primed for an exquisite paddle, all beauty and inspiration. I have no doubt that it will be so. At the same time, I’m dressed for the possibility that I could tip my canoe.

People make different choices around safety. What I consider dangerous, you might find to be a cakewalk. But maybe one of us is not fully informed.

For this reason, my optimistic practice of joy includes a risk assessment. I assess circumstances outside of my control as well as my own skills and abilities. I don’t want to die sunny side up.

I also don’t want to be limited by my fears.

Satisfied with my choice to wear neoprene, I jump into my canoe and paddle solo down one of the cleanest creeks in the world. I glide past Mare’s eggs, the brown globes of cyanobacteria that thrive in the coldest waters where nothing else will grow. I drift over turquoise sands past beaver dens and nests of geese. I hear osprey calling and look up to see a bald eagle perched on high near the bank. Everything is pristine. Even the highway noise disappears when I turn the bend.

I’m so glad I got over my old fears of paddling alone so I could experience this. So glad that I found a joyful way that feels right to me. Having adjusted for safety, I completely surrender to the wonder that I came here for.

I turn my canoe this way and that as I navigate the shallows, gliding upstream to the headwaters. This is sacred ground to the Klamath people, and I feel the pulse of spirit here. I breathe. Silty sands dance as water shoots up from deep within the earth.

A bubbling creek born of rock and mud. I bow in silence when I reach its end. I listen. I watch. I feel. This is what I came for. I’ve arrived in my own unique way. I have much to learn, and I am open. Humble.

Drifting homeward, gratitude fills my heart.