This morning, this writing, the letters would not fit together on the page. I tried shaking them, pulling each word apart and shuffling the letters around, jamming them back together like puzzle pieces into a too-small-box.
I gave up, slammed the lid down on my computer and tossed it into the back of my car. Reversed the car out of the driveway and sped off down the road to Walden.
In the pond I had no power. My arms felt heavy as they heaved over my body. It moved like a slug through the water, thick and green. I kept at it, this thing called swimming. Because with some things it is right to not let go.
I felt like I was sinking. And despite the sun having surfaced from behind the clouds, I was cold. It is, after all, Fall. And the overnight temperatures are falling into the forties. I push myself to stay warm. Rotate my arms faster.
My mind wanders over the water. I wonder why I worry about the petty things like words falling from a page. I become completely immersed in the now. The sparkling silver streaks of light dancing on the water surface, the blue sky on my right, on my left, on my right again. I let go of the nagging voice of perfection that hounds me. I find my strength. I become light and free and the water holds me. I am no longer looking at, I have become part of this, the words and water and Walden.
And back home at my computer the words come tumbling out, falling onto the page, as if they are meant to be.