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Thinking about swimming

I’ve been thinking a lot about swimming lately. My sister-in-law’s pool just opened for the season and both my daughter and I love to swim. In fact, I don’t remember a time when I was didn’t love being in or around the water. And like me, my daughter has been attracted to the water since she could walk. 

The first time we took her to the ocean, when she was still in diapers, my daughter tried to run straight into the water with no fear or hesitation. We would pull her back and, as soon as we let her go, she would try to run back in. It was like a scene straight out of Moana (an amazing movie, by the way). 

Now that the pool is open, she wants to go swimming every chance she gets. The only problem is that the water is really, really cold. That doesn’t stop her though. She eases her way in and will swim until we make her get out. It has, however, stopped me from joining her. 

The reason I’ve been thinking a lot about swimming lately is because I’ve been finding myself avoiding going in with her because the water is too cold. She all but begs me to join her, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I have a mental block that keeps me from taking the plunge, as it were. But this was not always the case. 

I used to have no fear nor hesitation about swimming whatsoever. Regardless of the temperature, if I was allowed in, I was jumping in. I swam in lakes, rivers, pools, and the ocean, and I didn’t care how cold it was. I was just happy to be in the water. 

So what changed? That’s what I’ve been pondering. What is it about getting older that makes us more hesitant, more reluctant, that keeps us from jumping in head or feet first, and that prevents us from simply enjoying ourselves? Why am I resistant to the cold water when I used to just be grateful to be able to swim? This may all seem silly, but there is something that happens to us as we get older that I’m just not okay with. 

In spite of my daughter’s pleading and her subsequent disappointment, I didn’t go swimming with her and, quite frankly, I’m bothered by that. I don’t want to be the kind of parent who says, “No,” to my child when she wants me to join her in the pool simply because I may be uncomfortable. I don’t want to be the kind of parent who avoids treats spending time with my child as an inconvenience. 

Beyond that, I don’t want to be the kind of person who never truly lives. Yeah, I know, it’s just a pool, but for whatever reason, it feels like more than that to me. My reluctance to jump in feels like a sign that I’ve taken this growing up thing too far, that I’ve mistaken being uptight, avoiding discomfort, and being unable to enjoy the moment as a sign of maturity. Growing up is for old people and I’d rather live. 

Chili humility

Recently, my wife took her parents to the Cambodian Buddhist Temple for a fundraiser. At the event, local Cambodian and Thai food vendors set up to raise money to donate to the temple through food sales. My wife came back with some of my favorite foods, including green papaya salad, chicken wings stuffed with Cambodian herbs, spices, and chopped peanuts, and fried bananas, which I really appreciated after a long day running and participating in a jiu-jitsu scrimmage for grapplers over forty. 

My mother-in-law brought home some produce, including a small, green bitter eggplant (turkey berry) that is used in a variety of Cambodian and Thai dishes, but she specifically uses it in one of my favorite Cambodian dishes, prahok ling. Prahok ling is essentially ground pork, fermented fish paste (prahok), herbs and spices (kaffir lime leaf, lemongrass, turmeric, etc), bird’s eye chilis, and turkey berries all stir-fried together. 

The dish is served with jasmine rice, raw vegetables such as cabbage, carrots, and green beans, and lime wedges. The prahok ling is either eaten over the rice with the veggies as an accompaniment, or the veggies are used to scoop up the prahok ling and it is all eaten together. The lime is there in case someone wants to add some acid to the dish, which I always do because I like the salty, spicy, bitter, and sour combination. 

Before we started eating, my mother-in-law warned me that there were whole bird’s eye chilis in the dish. At first, I ate around them, but then I got brave and I took a bite with a piece of chili in it. It was delicious and not too spicy. I finished what I had with the remainder of the chili and I decided to have some more. 

This time, bravery turning into arrogance, I took a couple of chilis into my bowl. I chopped the chilis up with my spoon, mixed them around in the prahok ling, squeezed some lime on it, and started eating. After my first couple of bites, I realized that something was very different. These chilis were not like the last one. My mouth was on fire and I could feel my belly starting to get warm. 

I told wife that I think I made a mistake and everyone started laughing. They know, and I know but had forgotten in a state of prideful ignorance and hunger, that not all bird’s eye chilis are created equal. Even in the same batch, they can range from a pleasant, fruity heat to regretfully spicy. I had just eaten the spectrum and now I needed to reevaluate my situation. 

Humbled and happy to give everyone a reason to laugh, I began separating the chilis from the rest of my food and enjoyed the remainder of my meal. It was not only delicious, but it was also very nice to have a sit-down, home-cooked meal with my wife, daughter, and in-laws. These occasions used to be an everyday occurrence for us because we all lived together for many years, but now that we live apart, it is more rare, and so we appreciate it when it happens. A temporarily burnt mouth and bruised ego are a small price to pay for delicious food and good company. 

My daughter wrote a song today

My daughter and I listen to a lot of music together. Some of it is music that I like, some is music that she likes, and some is music that we both like. I’m just happy that she is open to hearing new music, new to her at least. 

Whether it be funk, soul, or rock-and-roll from the 60’s and 70’s, hardcore punk from the 80’s, hip hop from the 90’s, or some obscure avant garde artist that I learned about from listening to Henry Rollins’ radio show on KCRW, she will give it a chance. That doesn’t mean she likes it or that she doesn’t ask for her music, but she listens. Every once in a while she will even ask me to add one of my songs to her playlist. 

She also asks me about the artists from time to time. Who are they? What are their names? Where are they from? She loves the story of Ian MacKaye and Henry Rollins growing up together, being inspired by Bad Brains, and becoming punk legends in their own right. Her favorite part of their story is how Henry Rollins started as a fan and eventually became the lead singer for his favorite band, Black Flag. She loves hearing about it I love talking to her about it.

I hope that my daughter is as moved and inspired by music as I was and am because, when I had no one else and nothing else, I always had a song for the occasion. Music, more than any other art form, has always kept me company. It has made the lonely times less so and the happy times more so. I hope that my daughter finds a friend in music like I did, but she wrote a song today so I’m pretty sure she already has.  

A state of non-pain

Is there a word for not being in pain? The state of being healthy and pain-free is often overlooked and under-appreciated. We don’t notice it because it doesn’t hurt. It’s almost as if we need pain in order to pay attention to our bodies. 

When we are hurt, we pay attention. Pain can be unrelenting in this way. It refuses to go unnoticed. We obsess over it. In fact, when we are injured, if we don’t feel our pain, we check back in on it to see if it’s still there. It’s not that we want to feel it. On the contrary, we check in on it because we are hoping it is gone, but checking in on it only perpetuates the pain.  

Peace and comfort, on the other hand, go largely unnoticed. We take them for granted, at least until they are disrupted by pain. Then, we miss our peace. We crave comfort. We yearn for healing. But as soon as our pain is relieved, so are we. We relax and forget it ever existed. We move on with our lives like it never happened. 

We love to forget our pain. While we are in the midst of our suffering, we make all sorts of bargains and promises. We swear that we will change if we only find relief. Our lives will be different if we are given a second chance. Pain makes us liars, but it is not our fault. We don’t mean to forget. It’s just that pain distracts us from the truth of our complacency and our apathy. 

I’m not sure if there is a word for not being in pain, but I am sure that we should appreciate it more. We should be grateful for every moment we are not hurting, celebrate our lack of pain, and rejoice in the freedom it affords us. It’s a luxury that is promised to no one, and it will not last. 

Choosing to walk

For many years, I was a repair technician traveling around the Washington DC metro area repairing coffee equipment and commercial ovens. With jobs coming in every day that were all over the region, I tried my best to be fast and efficient. But it was rarely as simple as showing up, diagnosing a piece of equipment, and repairing it. I also had to deal with the unpredictable obstacles of traffic and parking. 

With traffic, there was often nothing that could be done. There were a few back roads or detours here and there that I could take, but I mostly just had to trudge my way through it. Parking was slightly different, however.

With parking, especially in the city, I usually had two options. One option was to take the first available parking space, no matter how far away it was, and to walk. This would mean having to make multiple trips between my vehicle and the store for parts. The second option was to drive around the store I would be working in, looking for a parking space for as long as it took to find one as close to the store as possible. 

Quite often, I chose the second option. I prided myself on my stubborn persistence that I was going to find a parking space close to the store no matter how long it took. I’m not sure how often this decision saved me time, but it certainly saved me a lot of walking. 

Here’s the irony. Now that I no longer do repair work for a living, I actually make time to take long walks. In fact, I plan my day around my morning walk and I look for excuses to take walks throughout the day when I can. In fact, I sometimes park far away at the grocery store just to walk more and I take the stairs instead of the elevator when it is reasonable to do so. The difference, as far as I can tell, is why I’m walking and whom I’m walking for.