I have been to the water nearly every day since we arrived back in Michigan on the 26th of April. Sometimes by foot, often by bike, always with excitement and gratitude in my heart for the ability to access it within a handful of minutes of leaving my house.

Since the summer solstice, I have completed at least one back and forth of the buoys (there are eleven in the back line, just in case you were wondering and yes, it does lend itself to elevated enjoyment). I am not a fair-weather swimmer and have vowed to participate in this ritual unless prohibited by lightening or hazardous conditions. I welcome the moment with fully open arms each and every day.

The water has been frigid as the North Sea and as warm as the tropics. It has been crystal clear, and it has been obscured by cloudy churn. It has been calm and glassy, and it has been choppy and chaotic. It has been every shade of blue imaginable and for one day was entirely yellow from a rush of pollen settling on the shore. It has been all of these things and in all of these things, has always been itself.

In each of these conditions, I have swum. Once, twice, three times between the buoys. Counting 22, 44, 66 along the way. Matching rhythm of breath to the waves and appreciative of the muffled external world that amplifies the one within. Some days the laps were determined by time – having other obligations and simply fitting the swim between. Many days called