I would once draw metaphors from water. Swimming through the clear blue lanes would start a running commentary of my recent frustrations or perhaps a poem of angst. The rhythm of my breathing would be lost among the thoughts and I would find myself huffing and puffing at the end of the lap, shaking my head from side to side to get the talking to stop rather than the water out of my ears. It was so noisy underwater; silent screams of anxiety.

Now all I see is the black line painted on the bottom of the lane. All I feel is the water, cooling my skin. And all I hear is the sound of my breath.

I am present. What a gift.

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