Swimming
On the inevitable challenges of life
Hey friends,
Serendipity is finding something beautiful without looking for it. Many of life’s wonderful things — friendships, career breaks, inventions, romances — are born out of serendipity, the phenomenon that transcends mere chance or luck. It’s a force that weaves its way through the fabric of our lives, guiding us toward unexpected discoveries, connections, and opportunities.
In a world driven by busy schedules, agendas, and deadlines, serendipity serves as a gentle reminder to slow down, look around, and savor the beauty of the unexpected. From Alexander Fleming’s accidental discovery of penicillin to Percy Spencer’s serendipitous invention of the microwave oven, countless breakthroughs and innovations have emerged from the fertile soil of chance encounters and unexpected discoveries. So have countless partnerships and friendships.
A couple of months ago, I almost bailed on a good friend’s birthday party. It was late, I was tired from a long week of writing and travel, and I wanted to go to bed early. But I attended the party. Oh, I’m so glad I did.
Toward the end of the evening, a stranger approached me and introduced himself. We immediately cut past the small talk and connected on a deeper level, partly because he asked beautiful questions and listened intently, without a cell phone in sight. I now count him as a dear friend.
The person in question is Scott Gulbransen, a writer, poet, and student at Hofstra University's Clinical Psychology PhD program.
Scott, who lives in New York City, just published a book, entitled: “A Place to Put Your Blooming,” a collection of poems and reflections dedicated to the process of growth. “Within these pieces, the reader is destined to encounter themes related to joy, pain, grief, love, friendship, family, and hope.”
In celebration of his new book, today I’m delighted to share one of his new pieces, “Swimming.”
Swimming by Scott Gulbransen
A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine sent me and a few others a message that his father had a stroke. After sending him love and support, I found myself naturally experiencing anxiety; existential anxiety, in regards to how nothing is guaranteed in life, especially not our health. I had just gotten off the phone with my sister, and during that conversation I ironically had said to her, "everything in life that brings us joy will also bring us pain." "Really?" she asked. "Yes," I said. Just think about it; our friends, family, hobbies, body parts, pets, jobs, lovers, foods, secrets, and more can all hurt us in different ways. These things can leave us at any moment, or irreversibly change in ways that we cannot predict nor control.
Knowing this, how can a person not experience anxiety? It is impossible; we have to. What else would we do over the course of our lives besides form attachments? Attachments are necessary. They are part of life.
As a child, I would always see trees on the side of the road on my way to school. I would envy these trees. "They don't have to take a math test, they don't have to do homework, they don't mess up in sports, they don't get made fun of, and they never feel bad." Though this is true, trees also never feel good. Trees don't laugh, hug, eat good food, dance, read books, learn new things, or love their family (they've probably never even met their family). Sure, their fathers don't have strokes, but they also never play catch with their fathers in the yard. Trees don't learn from their fathers, speak to them during long car rides, shake their hand, care for them as they age, or miss them when they die. Trees don’t feel, but people do.
Thus, all things that allow us to feel good are also capable of making us feel bad. None of us asked for this, all of us will receive it.
At times, perhaps too often, life is like being thrown into the deep end of a swimming pool by a group of bullies. During times like this, our relationship to water takes on a whole new meaning. The bullies might not want us to drown, but they allow us to suffer. They watch as we thrash, kick, scream, choke, and flail within waters that were once tranquil. When we find ourselves here, it is hard, if not impossible, to believe that help is on its way. When will we be saved? Is there a lifeguard on duty, or at least someone who knows how to swim in the deep? Or are we to swim at our own risk?
Not only are these moments difficult, but also inevitable. We cannot– must not– spend every moment of our lives hoping that we remain where the water is shallow. At some point we must dwell within the fearsome dangers of deeper waters in order to help ourselves or to help someone we love. Sometimes, we get pushed. Other times we jump, dive, or slip. Such is life.
And so I ask you all, what happens when life cannot drown us? Yes, our muscles ache, our eyes are blinded, our hearts are broken, and our lungs scream prayers in hopes that every body of water—every river, stream, sea, ocean, sink, bath, shower, and cup run dry—so that our lungs do not run out of air; so that we do not run out of life. What is it called, though, when we turn our flailing membranes into vessels of synchronous movements, keeping ourselves afloat, keeping us alive? What would you name that thing, that beautiful, sweet, thing that negates the need of a life preserver, that stares death in the eye and says, “not today,” even in the deepest of oceans, and allows us to thrive upon waves of salt and blood? I know this thing, I have felt this thing deeply. Chances are, you have too. So, friend, what is this thing that I speak of? This graceful, helpful, and necessary, life-saving movement, that a drowning human cannot live without?
Swimming.
And, to swim live, we must jump in.
Celebrate your gifts,
Matthew
Good article! The whole of life, in simple words!