The Good Dive

I am staring at my toes. The brilliant yellow sun of summer is creating pin points of light against the shiny white frame of the boat. I am standing on the back end of the boat poised to dive into the lake. My family is talking, laughing, lounging, jumping in all around me. We are in the middle of the lake, anchored at my daughters’ pleading and insistent request, to just swim for a while.

The lake is 18 and one half feet deep here. I know this because I have checked I try to suck in a breath, pause for a moment to gather my strength, block out the noise and confusion around me. I want to know I am diving. I want to feel my fear.

I have always been afraid to dive into the lake. Diving toward darkness seemed irrational, even absurd. What if I get confused and couldn't find my way up? What if I hit my head, get a cramp? No one would be able to find me in the lakes’ black depths.

I had a change in perspective after struggling through the last couple years steeped in the deaths of my stepdad, my mother in law and the stroke and subsequent coma of my friend Kris. How often, I asked myself, do we get to see the end of anything, even our own life?

I feel like death is a winged predator. A silent, huge black bird sailing through the air. So far, I have been lucky. But I could get picked at any time. Nothing is strong enough to protect me.

Now, standing in the hot summer sun, I suck in fear and push it back out in one big breath. I raise my arms,push off and dive deep. I try to watch the clear green water rush past my face. I arc down and then surge up, kicking the last few moments.

Surface blinking into hot sun, happy voices and tread water, breathing deeply. I keep wishing the fear will go away. But, I am afraid every single time. I make every dive an exercise in hope.

What I miss about my friend Kris is her sense of humor, her clarity of thought, her curiosity and openness to all the variety in the world around her. It is her individuality, her Krisness. And I am hoping we get that back. In the meantime, I can dive into my own darkness. Again and again and again.


From The Circumference of Hope, a memoir of loss