cold tub

I crank open the bathroom window, inviting the air of January to enter. 

I fill the tub with soap and salts and cold water. 

I strip and stand, observing my reflection. Look at this body. So strong. So worn. So human.   

The tub is half full. I'm not sure I will last very long and I don't want to waste water. The last time I tried to take a cold shower, I lasted only a few seconds before lunging for my robe.  

I turn off the nozzle and look one last time at the water. I step in. My feet tingle as I stand on bits of bath salt. Soapy foam surrounds my ankles. 

Can I be present for this? Can I listen closely to my body? Can I ignore my head and all its thinking?

My feet don't sting. Instead, it feels like an opening, like my skin is absorbing and inhaling, brightening. It feels awake. 

I kneel. I then sit, gripping the sides of the tub. I put my hands in. My arms. I have preemptively slathered shampoo onto my hair so that I would need to wet my head. I reach back and dip my scalp. It is both thrilling and chilling. I sit up and the hair drips down my dry back. I shake and gasp. I pull my head forward and dunk. Then back, dropping all the way in and under the water. Woah.

I stand. I am not running for my towel. I feel alive. I go back in. 

I stand again. I wait and then step out. Five minutes have passed. I take my towel and look again in the mirror. Has the cold transformed me? Perhaps. I hug my hair and body with towels and drench my face and neck with cream. 

Before I go upstairs to my bedroom, I stand in the backyard with only my towel. I want to know what it feels like to dip in a river in winter, to stand on the cold stones of a shore. Somehow, I don't shiver. 

I go back inside and upstairs. I dress. 

Is this one way I can practice presence? Is this one way I can settle into the stillness of single-tasking? Is this one way I can cure my pattern of peacemaking, by starting with myself? To face potentially important pain with bravery? To not run and hide and flee, but to learn, time and time again, how to be bold. 

I love looking for contemporary tools that show me my human nature, and my ancient body. How long were humans bathing in cold rivers to wash off dirt and odor? How long were we standing in sea and river, barefooted, to fish and forage? How long were we gathering water from snow-lined streams, ponds, and waterfalls? A long long time.  

We are so bundled now in our privilege of polyester and goose down. We are so warm in our layers of wool and cotton, in our insulated walls of wood, paint, and plaster. How much does this separation between humans and nature hurt our earth? And how much does it hurt us?