Hazy waters

Summer has been a wondrous blaze in my part of the world. I recoil into the shade of my room to work at my newly purchased rattan desk. I’ve strategically placed my banana leaf plant next to it, and with the shutters closed to keep the heat out, I imagine myself in first-half-of-the-20th-century Havana, wearing minimal clothing, trying to finish my piece before meeting Hemingway downstairs at the bar for an adventurous night on the town.

The reality is I go to bed at 9. There is no Ernest waiting for me at the bar, but like him, I rise early to the page every day. After writing and before the rays of the sun become too strong, I head down to the Mediterranean for a swim. That life appears very free from the outside as it seems I can do as I please. But the truth is, I’ve tethered myself to the work of writing, no matter the cost. And the cost at times, can feel steep. 

In creative endeavors or even personal, professional ones that are off the beaten path, the road can be long, winding, and lonely. Whether you are writing a novel while having a day job, constructing a visionary project, embarking on a new career, it can feel like you are out at sea, swimming alone in unfamiliar waters. 

I do laps around the bay, wanting to stay in a controlled environment. I always have an initial reluctance to start the swim, just like when I sit down to write.  In the beginning, I wonder how I’ll make it another twenty-five minutes. So I concentrate on the moment. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. It becomes a rhythm. I taste the seawater and watch sleepy schools of fish shimmy out of the way in perfectly synchronized ballets. This is the easy part, like the beginning of a book, with all of the excitement of novelty. 

I adjust my neck, think of my form, avoid the few people standing near the shore. Then I reach the cord that marks my first turn toward the deep end. I follow the buoys. It gets darker, murkier. Lately the heat has made the otherwise crystal water hazy.

In my work, I currently feel I’m in a hazy zone. I’m finalizing my second book, hoping to have it completed in time for a September release. It’s one of several projects I have going, none of which are guaranteed to see the light of day, or to rise to a level that offers “success.” It is hard to know what to hang onto. There are no “work buoys” for me to follow as I trail my own path. There’s nothing. While I swim, I know I could stop now and turn back. But maybe, if I push further, I’ll reach a patch of clearer water. I’ll reach a point where there will be a clear sign. But the clarity doesn’t come. Neither in my swim or in my work.  

A boat passes. Its wake throws off my rhythm. I drink a bit of seawater. I slow down. I recover while moving forward. The key is not to stop. Don’t be scared. Something unknown brushes my foot, I pray it’s just algae. I turn to swim the deep end, parallel to the shore. Here, I feel a bit better. The water clears. 

I stop to clean my goggles, maybe they are the ones blurring my vision. Nope. But those few seconds give me just enough of a break that I feel I’m back in the game. I tell myself to push through another lap,  another chapter. The haze is returning. My arms ache, my breath shortens, and anxiety creeps in because I have committed to more than I originally wanted. But I go.

This is often how I feel in my work. I sense I’m on the cusp of something, a pinnacle. But I don’t know if it’s a breakthrough or the brink of collapse.  It is an extraordinary challenge to practice what a friend recently defined as “the mental gymnastics to constantly push the rock up the hill into potential nothingness.” If everything falls apart, will I have the drive, the energy, the will to rebuild? Can I write another book? To keep going despite the voices, external and internal, saying, I told you so. You weren’t following the rules. You should’ve played it safe. But I don’t know how to live like that. Nor do I want to. I bet it all. 

Whether it’s writing, swimming, or building something no one else can quite see yet, the only thing I know to be true is to keep going. Keep moving forward. The endurance we build isn’t just physical, it’s mental, it can even be emotional. It’s the quiet strength to keep showing up when no one’s watching, when there’s no recognition, no finish line in sight. No Ernest waiting at the bar to congratulate you. The mind resists. It tells you to turn back. But often, if you just stay with it a little longer, you find your way through the haze. And while there may be no guarantee of success, no buoy to guide you, maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is the doing itself. The experience of pushing past doubt, of tasting salt, of getting knocked off rhythm and finding it again. Maybe this, simply this, is what it means to live a full, committed experience of our time here.