In class, we read Paul Auster's essay "Why Write?" which appeared in the New Yorker six or eight years ago. In it, he provides five anecdotes of amazing coincidence (his particular sphere of interest), only one of which (being bereft of a pencil when he had the chance to get the great Willie Mays's signature) has anything to do with writing.
The subsequent assignment was to pose our own questions (Why Act? Why Go Vegan? Why Play Video Games When You're a Grown-Up and Should Have Better Things to Do?) without describing or even mentioning the thing itself. The exercise brings to mind Emily's Dickinson's poem 1263, which begins:
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb disguise
Here, then, is my attempt.
Why Do Yoga?
On the first day of Girl Scout camp on Catalina Island, we had to take a swimming test, which involved putting on some old clothes (which they provided), including tennis shoes; jumping off the dock into the freezing water; and taking off the clothes and folding them neatly on the dock (not really) before going into shock from hypothermia. I was a good swimmer, having spent most of my summers at the local pool (my hair turning green as a emblem of my dedication), so I was able to get the white swim cap that allowed me to try something new: snorkeling.
It was a strange sensation at first. The snorkel itself made me feel very conscious of my breathing, and it took a few shallow practice dives to reassure me that air was still available on the surface when I needed it. With a kick of my flippers I could glide through the water in any direction. I gradually came to understand that this wasn't about overcoming resistance and dragging myself through the water, which is how I felt doing laps; it was about taking advantage of a new element, letting it hold me up, relaxing into it. I didn't have to go anywhere in particular; I didn't have to turn around and go back the same way. I also learned to clean my mask so I could see through it clearly. Since the water is so cold, there isn't a lot of marine life, but I remember tall strands of undulating seaweed, opalescent abalone shells, and especially the bright orange Garibaldi fish that make their home there.
As I said, the water was freezing, and by the time I got out I was shivering uncontrollably. A long, hot shower was not enough to warm me up. Eventually, however, some dry clothes, sunshine, and dinner helped me re-acclimate, so that was all right.
Even better, lying in my sleeping bag that night, I could still feel the gentle movement of the waves, as though my cot were floating.
