The name of my column, Salt Water Cure, comes from an Isak Dinesen (real name, Karen Blixen) quote: “The cure for anything is saltwater—sweat, tears, or the sea.”
I am stuck in a bit of an eddy of medical tests and waiting. Hopefully it will all be fine, but so far it is stacking uncertainty on uncertainty. I am worried, fearful, and anxious.
I do not want to spend these glorious and fleeting summer days fretting and pacing. So I am putting Dinesen’s concept into practice: saltwater (and some fresh) has become my solace.
It’s noisy, inside and outside my head, but underwater it’s muffled and calm.
When I feel stymied by inaction, wishing for some sort of constructive step I can take to bring certainty a little closer, I turn to sweat. I run, go to cardio dance class at the gym, work outside in the sun, lie on the beach.
Sweat is my offering back to the water cycle. Sweating brings with it a feeling of accomplishment, giving of myself in some way, tiring myself so I can sleep, rewiring my brain away from its treadmill of catastrophizing.
Tears are more elusive, but necessary. Finding time and space to cry isn’t always easy as a parent and a teacher. During stressful or upsetting times it’s often necessary to mask my emotions and compartmentalize all of the things I need to juggle.
But sometimes the cup overflows. I found myself sobbing on the stern of the ferry after round two of tests and more uncertainty, assisted by connecting with empathetic friends and two-thirds of a Heineken I consumed before getting on the boat. I felt silly, I felt ashamed, I felt vulnerable, but after, I felt a little better.
The sea is where I find the most serenity. This is the season of riding the top of the ferry, scanning for porpoises, seals, or whales. It’s the season of staring at the horizon, clear to eternity or veiled by a Fata Morgana mirage.
It’s the season of long swims, a mile at a time. At the time of writing I’ve logged three miles, quite a bit before July. It’s been hot, and the sea is there to regulate my body temperature. It’s noisy, inside and outside my head, but underwater it’s muffled and calm. I am not sure what to do with my hands, but the sea gently presses on all sides.
And the origin of all water, salt or fresh: rain. I went for a walk with a friend who is uniquely helpful when I’m trying to navigate cycles of anxiety or fear.
It had been oppressively hot for days but as we entered the park, a massive thunderhead blocked half the sky. My friend was unconcerned, so we walked and talked.
I don’t want any of this, I yelled. You don’t have a choice, they said. Thunder started to grumble, subtly at first and then assertively. (And yes, readers, I know, when thunder roars go indoors. This is not a story about being cautious and safe. It is about catharsis.)
We started to turn back but didn’t quicken our pace. The storm was inevitable. A few drops splattered the dirt, then the deluge. Within seconds there was no space between the rain drops, no difference between the water and my clothes and skin.
There was no choice but to keep walking, so we did, back to our soaked cars.
Metaphorically I had approached and moved through a fearful moment with peace. Literally I was cleansed, too drenched to fret, too happy to worry.
Courtney Naliboff teaches writing, theater, and music and plays in the band Bait Bag on North Haven. She may be contacted at Courtney.Naliboff@gmail.com.
