perfection

There is something so perfect about swimming in the rain. Surrounded by the orchestra, a million little drum beats; the band warms up, starts slowly until one by one it's uniform sound. The sound grows, intensifies. You lean back into the music, float on your back, lean into the beat, get as close to the sound as you can without the water swallowing you up. You realize you are in the band too; you unwittingly add to the cacophony, the rain slapping your skin, insistently tapping your head.

While the music continues you explore. You realize the shifting, tangible veil. Swimming in the rain means each stroke pushes you through another layer in a water blind; you are in a room whose walls you'll never find. You learn the vastness of the sky that mirrors your lake. You learn the solitary tread of staying alive, staying afloat--movement.  Your body relaxes and remembers itself. You spread and contract and feel vast in this water. You learn the smallness of yourself in the world.

And just as suddenly as you feel like you've never been anything but part of this orchestra, and this world, the rain stops and you are again filled with the other sounds--the everyday sounds. You see your friend who has shared these moments with you, you smile because she knows too.