Friday, March 12, 2010
upright stance is the rule on land, but . . . in aqua is a different story. ironically swimming has made me taller -- my doctor has measured me! No mystery -- my posture is better.
swimming is very like sex in that self awareness is altered by the physical activity -- the sense/feeling of well-being is so strong -- so compelling -- so complete that insecurities about the body are unimportant. Who cares what it looks like if it feels this good? And once the moves are learned there is no fear that the body wonÕt remember them -- one seeks then plunges and if you get from A to B and have not drowned, then you have swum successfully. Technique is important for the professional -- the olympic athlete or the sex worker -- but the amateur can get good results with lesser skills.
and a day with a swim in it -- is a day that is intrinsically valuable
Posted at 07:05 pm by Tourmaline
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I love it. The Xena feeling of powerfulness and invincibility. Okay -- I can't wear the costume. I probably can't kick the shit out of a room full of desperate men. But when it snows -- when it's cold -- I rush to the swimming pool. I feel strong. I feel flexible. When the roof of the pool is filling up with snowfall it creates an different light. And returning to the outside after an hour in the water is a unique thrill -- my warm and elastic muscles are proof against any chill. Chill feels good and thirst is earned and hunger is well earned. Appetite after swimming is deep and resolute. The walk to the car is lovely because I always move with fluidity after a swim.
Posted at 05:09 pm by Tourmaline
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Dawn of the New Decade
On The Eve of My Birthday
On the eve of my birthday I had a wonderfully, deep swim experience. I have been shirking -- just doing my aqua aerobics class and that only two days a week. Snow days, holidays and employee furloughs have interrupted my schedule at the pool. Today the water was a beautiful temp . The outside sunny day was cold, the locker room was a lot like a sauna because the very strange heating system makes the room roaring hot when the temps outside are cold. Then there is the freezy walk from the showers to the pool, but once I get this close to the water I am so excited that I don't notice the cold. Outside of the water, the pool room is comfortable -- warm enough for comfort in a swim suit. The water is variable -- the variable. Sometimes it is bracingly cold and the first plunge is an ice cold kick . moving in cold water gives you a great sense of accomplishment when your body begins to adjust to the temp and you are warm in cold water. My first lessons at Asphalt Green were in very chill water. My teacher always began with me plunging straight in. I still like to feel I can take the shock of it. I once took several quick plunges into the frigid water of Puget Sound -- it was still early August, but those waters were cold.
My aquanut buddies sang "Happy Birthday."
I'm beginning my second decade as a swimmer. I shared the dressing room/locker room with another mature woman. She spoke of only having learned to swim in the last year -- recommended for physical therapy. She said the same thing I often say: Swimming has changed my life. I've been reflecting on the changes. There was a time when I thought that I may be able to swim enough to become a much slimmer self -- a truly slender figure knifing through the aqua. This has not happened. I am more fit -- I am slimmer than ten years ago, but no slip of a girl for sure. I am though-- much stronger -- have far more stamina -- am much more flexible. I have a better chest. I have a much better back and lower back. My legs are more useful. I take the stairs in a bound. I can walk on the narrow curb that borders the park where I walk my dog. I AM AN INCH TALLER. My posture has improved so that I have measured taller -- straighter. I think my skin is better because of better blood circulation and apr¸s swim pampering/lotioning.
Posted at 06:07 pm by Tourmaline
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
"Blue, blue, I've got a tale to tell and I'm blue. Something come over me . . . "
-- Bessie Smith
Trouble on Tuesday -
I went to the pool without the proper nutrition. I won't say what I ate. I was great for my initial plunge. That first lap to the deep after entering the water is my favorite moment. There is less of the brain ticking off concerns and it is mostly about letting the muscles do what they've become accustomed to.
I faded quickly during Aqua Aerobics. I got cramps in my legs and had to pull up and fall out of the sets. Thanks to my aquanut buddies for commiserating.
Swimming was blissful, but I could not move my aqua dumbbells. I've been shirking the pool for the last month and some muscles have already started slacking.
Funniest thing I've heard since the start of 2010:
"Where's my panties? Where's my bra? Lord, I've got to go to the foot doctor, too. Oh well, I don't think he'll notice." - heard in the locker room at the pool after A-A class. It's bound to happen. You underdress your swim suit and forget to bring your undies. There you go wrestling your jeans on over nothing and there you are wiggling and jiggling home. This body was, for the time you were in the water, flexible and capable and powerful and not the subject of anyone's judgement but your own.
Deep Water Wednesday -
I did better about the fuel and I didn't suffer much leg trouble. We did our workout with flotation belts in the deep end. Baby, deep water is good. It is like having an hour-long whole-body massage. We laughed a lot and laughing is a particularly refreshing exercise when you're up to your shoulders in water with twelve feet beneath you -- held by the belt. Your legs can do things -- opening and closing -- stretched to their limits -- in ways you couldn't begin to do on land before the eyes of others. We put foam noodles beneath our feet and push down and bob about in the water. All efforts to stay upright put a tax on your abs. It feels good.
Posted at 06:07 pm by Tourmaline
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I didn't swim today though I went to the pool. Aqua aerobics classes are suspended due to administrative sloth and disinterest and equipment problems. I did a couple of laps. Then, because of the crowds, I mounted a noodle ( a noodle is a long sausage shaped foam flotation device) at the deep end and I moved through the water, riding my noodle, articulating my arms, legs, abs. In fact, I was proud that I used only one noodle and didn't use a flotation belt and I moved and worked out in the deep. My abs were on their own and they worked out well.
I kind of like having a pool membership card
Posted at 07:56 pm by Tourmaline
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Pool Is Cool: WWII, swimming and driving
Walking/driving to and from the municipal swimming pool I belong to is a guilty pleasure. Like everybody who comes to the facility, I under-dress my swim suit. So I'm always in disguise when I enter -- have put on the costume of another player. In this uniform I'm a woman who is lithe and strong -- who will take into herself all of the oxygen that's available and put it to good, deep, efficient use. This phenom is one that I discuss with other mature women who swim and do aqua aerobics. There is a bone deep feeling of well-being and accomplishment that - I believe - is unavailable to the older body except with something like running - which is so much more tough on the aging carcass. Swimming is the balm/bomb for us riper fruits.
Accomplishment -- we mention this a lot when we are dressing and toweling off and going back to ourselves -- feeling like we've accomplished our workout -- put something in the bank for later on.
Driving an automobile is like this in some measure -- a skilled accomplishment. It is a complex set of skills that is improved with practice and attention. My beloved, late father taught me to drive.
He was a gentle, patient man who had driven always -- especially in the U.S. army where he honed his skills. I am, like he was, a great driver. I am serious about driving as a skill to respect and cultivate. The most important component of the skill of driving is alertness and attention. He always emphasized that in teaching me. Even in his older age when he depended on me to drive him to his medical appointments, he would critique my driving -- especially proper parking technique. Wheels should be cut into the curb on a backwards hill. My Popsi was a parking stickler. He was convinced that some out of control car would careen around the corner, strike his car and push it away from the curb and backwards down our hilly street. In the 50 plus years he lived and parked there, I do not remember it ever happening. Why? Because he cut his wheels into the curb. I hardly ever did. It never happened to me either. He instilled in me a respect for techniques in driving and automobile maintenance. Don't idle your engine for long moments -- for any reason. It is injurious and unnecessary. His honorable discharge from the Army says that his campaigns were Normandy, Northern France, Rhineland. He told us about driving truckloads of fellow soldiers on a long road away from the beaches at Normandy. He said that the other boys were scared, hungry -- more scared than hungry. He said that he was told to put the truck in gear and not stop until. . . I have never clearly understood how this story ends. My father came back from WWII and lived another sixty years or so. My father taught most of the people in my family how to drive. He gave up driving his own car at the age of ninety-five.
I like to drive a bit after I have swum. All of my back muscles are so relaxed and articulate that I feel my arms and legs flawlessly coordinated and exerting gentle, effective control over the machine.
Posted at 07:40 am by Tourmaline
Friday, July 31, 2009
The water forgives me. I thought it wouldn't. I am so insecure that I think I have betrayed my relationship with my swimming if I stay away from the pool. So, I go back and I feel as though there has been no break off. I have a delight in coming back though I am fearful that I no longer know how to swim. I have a multitude of reasons to stay away from the aerobics class and/or the pool. But on a day that I swim I have the experience of feeling strong, graceful, capable and deeply relaxed. And when I get out of the water, I feel virtuous and hungry. What experience could be better?
Posted at 04:59 pm by Tourmaline
Sunday, July 05, 2009
As the descendent of enslaved African Americans it is difficult to be celebratory on the holiday that has come to be called Independence Day - July 4th. I am grateful that Frederick Douglas has given us so eloquent a speech as that he delivered on July 5, 1852 to consider. if you are inclined to quiet prayer, then intone these words. If you are inclined to angry outbursts then rather exhort this. If you are inclined to study, then learn these words.
Independence Day Speech at Rochester, NY - 1852
"Fellow citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here today? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? and am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?
Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold that a nation's sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims of gratitude that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation's jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that the dumb might eloquently speak and the "lame man leap as an hart."
But such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of the disparity between us. am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence bequeathed by your fathers is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought light and healing to you has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me by asking me to speak today? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn that it is dangerous to copy the example of nation whose crimes, towering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrevocable ruin! I can today take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people.
"By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! We wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth."
Fellow citizens, above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions! Whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are, today, rendered more intolerable by the jubilee shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorry this day, "may my right hand cleave to the roof of my mouth"! To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then, fellow citizens, is American slavery. I shall see this day and its popular characteristics from the slave's point of view. Standing there identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine. I do not hesitate to declare with all my soul that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this Fourth of July! Whether we turn to the declarations of the past or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the Constitution and the Bible which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery-the great sin and shame of America! "I will not equivocate, I will not excuse"; I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, shall not confess to be right and just....
For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not as astonishing that, while we are plowing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, and secretaries, having among us lawyers doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and teachers; and that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men, digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hillside, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives, and children, and above all, confessing and worshiping the Christian's God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave, we are called upon to prove that we are men!
What, am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow men, to beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the lash, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system thus marked with blood, and stained with pollution, is wrong? No! I will not. I have better employment for my time and strength than such arguments would imply....
What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are, to Him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy-a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States at this very hour.
Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms- of the Old World, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival."
This is a part of Douglas’ great speech. Read the entire speech at: http://afgen.com/douglas.html
Posted at 05:58 am by Tourmaline
Monday, June 22, 2009
Facing Father’s Day without my father
My earliest painful memory was an episode of panic, loss and naked fear. I dropped my father’s hand purposely and let him walk off down the street without me. It was the thing that all small children do. They test themselves and their resolve to see if they can separate from their parent and if the parent will let them. I remember making the decision to stand back and let him walk away from me. My father didn’t get half a block before I ran after him and grabbed back his hand. It truly is the child who is well-loved and feels cherished who has the hardest time separating.
My father was tall. I thought he was the tallest man in the entire world. He was the tallest man I saw for a very long time. I’ve always thought he was like a tree. He had all the arboreal attributes; the height, the warm bark color, the gentle ruggedness that oaks and others have, the protective aspect, the rootedness, the steady, solid, immovable, ethical, handsomeness and constancy of trees.
James Sheridan Clarke, my father, died on January 18, 2009. He was ninety-six years old. He basically wore out. In cleaning out his things I discovered so many, many pairs of socks. There were dozens of them in balls in the basement -- mated, matched and twisted together in clean, orderly balls. These were the many obligatory Xmas, birthday and Father’s day presents my sisters and I had given him over the years. He never asked for any particular present and we always truly wanted to get something for him. Sometimes it was a real chore trying to think of something fresh. We mostly fell back on socks.
My son died in 1989. I recall thinking when he was a small baby that he would be there when my beloved father died. We would mourn him together and go on in his line honoring him. Things happened differently. It turns out my father helped me through the crisis of my son’s death, a grandson that he idolized. How did we make it past that crushing sorrow?
When you nurse a dying parent you discover so many things. Lifting, turning, carrying a grown person who is ill is the hardest thing imaginable. You figure that because he has now become thinner and frailer that he will be easy to move. But my father seemed as heavy as lead. You fantasize that your big, strapping son will lift this man up over his head and put him down in bed gently and smooth the sheets beneath him. Truth is that’s a great big fantasy picture. The way to move a bedridden person is by making a draw sheet and roll and pull and have transfer chairs and benches and portable toilets and bedpans and plastic pads and large disposable diapers and a washer and dryer in the basement, And then beg and cajole and laugh and tease to get their flaccid, weak abdominal muscles to help out your aching back.
It is easy to turn to ancestor worship when your parents have died. No joy is joy enough without them. You invoke them often and it is to them that you appeal for the bus, the lost keys and to look after the house, the car, the friends and you.
The last time I saw my father at the residence facility where he spent his last days he waved my sister and me off. We had gotten up to go and we kept saying more and coming back to the bed touching his head, his face, his hand. He lay there - knowing we were to drive to New Jersey -- and he waved his hand to say, “Go, on. Go, on now.” He was pushing us away from him in that loving way that we send the well-loved child to kindergarten. “Go, on and on and on,” he seemed to say with the graceful gesture of his hand.
Posted at 04:45 pm by Tourmaline
Monday, June 15, 2009
Local history delight
I went on the Escape On The Pearl bus tour hosted by Mt. Zion United Methodist Church in Washington, D.C. Our tour guide was author, Mary Kay Ricks who wrote ESCAPE ON THE PEARL, THE HEROIC BID for FREEDOM on the UNDERGROUND RAILROAD. This is the sobering and exciting story of the largest, organized escape on the underground railroad -- aboard the sailing vessel, The Pearl. This is also the personal story of Mary and Emily Edmonson and their family. The Edmonsons were some of the escapees aboard The Pearl. Mary Kay has done extensive research and has uncovered links to important individuals involved in the escape and several of the oldest African American congregations in Washington and Georgetown. Carter Bowman, archivist of Mt. Zion Church was on the bus as were many other local history experts and buffs. Here are some pictures of the day:
We visited Asbury Methodist Church. Several participants in the Pearl escape were members/founders of this congregation.
at its peak, Franklin and Armfield, a.k.a. the Alexandria Slave Pen, was transporting 1,800 slaves a year to the cotton plantations of Louisiana and Mississippi. for more info on this: www.freedomhouse.org
The Northern Virginia Urban League moved into this house in 1996 and has dedicated the site to Rev. Lewis Henry Bailey, a former slave who was sold through the pen to a family in Texas.
our mentor, Carter Bowman, archivist of Mt. Zion United Methodist Church in a quiet moment in the Mt. Zion/Female Union Band Cemetary
Janet Ricks, head of the history committee at Mt. Zion leads us through the Mt. Zion/Female Union Band Cemetary.
Beth Taylor, my bus seat partner, is the Director of Education at James Madison's Montpelier. She's researching Paul Jennings, who was enslaved to President and Mrs. Madison.
Mary Kay Ricks talks about Alfred Pope, one of the escapees on The Pearl and a trustee of Mt. Zion Church. After his adventures on The Pearl, Pope built significant wealth through his rag-picking/waste disposal business. He contributed real estate and finance for the building of Mt. Zion Church. Alfred Pope later married Hannah, one of the slaves of Martha and Thomas Peter, who built Tudor House in Georgetown. See previous post regarding my visit to Tudor House.
Posted at 11:19 am by Tourmaline
Onward only! I can't turn back and I won't turn around.
Celebrating eleven years of swimming!
stroking onward and upward
swimming for the wall 2010
“Centuries later historians would ridicule as a numbers game attempts to count the millions forced to suffer the trauma of the transatlantic passage. Yet for those who witnessed the murderous raids by Arabs, Europeans, or hostile black Africans upon their communities, for those who were discarded on their march to the African coast, for those who were banned to the hold of the ships, for those whose bodies were cast overboard, for those who made it to the unknown on the other side of the ocean, every single one mattered. For every single woman, every single man represented the difference between life and death, between the "I am" and chattel, between history and the void, between the voice and silence. For every single one defined the whole.”
from Black Imagination and the Middle Passage by Maria Diedrich, Henry Louis Gates, Carl Pedersen
“As you were speaking this morning of little children, I was looking around and thinking it was most beautiful. But I have had children and yet never owned one, no one ever owned one; and of such there's millions -- who goes to teach them? You have teachers for your children but who will teach the poor slave children?
I want to know what has become of the love I ought to have for my children? I did have love for them, but what has become of it? I cannot tell you. I have had two husbands but I never possessed one of my own. I have had five children and never could take one of them up and say, 'My child' or 'My children,' unless it was when no one could see me.
I believe in Jesus, and I was forty years a slave but I did not know how dear to me was my posterity. I was so beclouded and crushed. But how good and wise is God, for if the slaves knowed what their true condition was, it would be more than the mind could bear. While the race is sold of all their rights -- what is there on God's footstool to bring them up? Has not God given to all his creatures the same rights? How could I travel and live and speak? When I had not got something to bear me up, when I've been robbed of all my affections for husband and children.
My mother said when we were sold, we must ask God to make our masters good, and I asked who He was. She told me, He sit up in the sky. When I was sold, I had a severe, hard master, and I was tied up in the barn and whipped. Oh! Till the blood run down the floor and I asked God, why don't you come and relieve me -- if I was you and you'se tied up so, I'd do it for you.”
Sojourner Truth, 1856
This text of her address was recorded by the acting secretary of the Friends of Human Progress Association of Michigan, Thomas Chandler, and published in the Anti-Slavery Bugle