I already feel heavy. Just yesterday I spent a swath of time floating weightless on my back, feet dangling into the warmth of the lake water. I saw clouds and rays through the sliver of a gaze. I listened to life with ears submerged and it sounded like that place between a dream and waking up.
My hair sprawled out behind me like a sea creature. I took deep breaths and filled my lungs, and for a moment, nothing bore weight. It all gravitated upward. But the moment I go vertical, the burden rushes in and returns, pulling my feet back to the earth like the magnet that gravity is.
So I consider — how is it that stretched and sprawled out is the way to stay afloat? Upright, I’m treading. Horizontal, I’m buoyant. I imagined how long I could stay on my back if lost at sea. Could I survive suspended there indefinitely? It’s as if we were designed with built-in life preservers. But it only deploys when we lay ourselves back and surrender to the deep. Then suddenly we’re not consumed by it, but rather held by it. Such a phenomenon.
And how do I stay postured with bulging heart toward heaven this day? With life in my lungs, inflating me, propelling me into weightless wonder? I feel a bit lighter already, just considering the miracle that is surrender. I only wish I was better at it.