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As a kid, watercolors frustrated me. I wanted the paint to go where I wanted it to go, but water got in the way. The colors felt muted and lacking, diluted by the medium. I didn’t have the patience or experience to know what we can control and what we can’t. Paper would soak up the runny color and tear or deform. I gave up and stuck with markers: thick, saturating, and bright. They felt like a very dense, workable watercolor. I needed to be in control of my design.
I abandoned the paint. I thought I knew all I needed to know about water: I drank it, bathed in it, and loved to play in it. I wasn’t afraid of water, even at its most powerful. Water only seemed unpredictable to the rigid and weak, but I’m strong and fluid. I was a great swimmer, so I swam. I thought I could control the water, or if not at least control myself in it. I never worried about drowning.
But I did drown.
I first dove deep into life with a strong kick. I found something to focus on, counting strokes and estimating my endpoint. I found a target and locked in, just trying to get away from land. People cheered for me. I passed the target and set another, pushing until the water pulled me under. I bobbed back up and kept going, but it happened again and again. The water felt unfamiliar, cold, and harsh. I was distracted by the unfamiliarity of defeat, but I tried to ignore it. The water was an obstacle and I was a force, but the waves kept coming.
I found myself underwater more often than not, and during one unremarkable surge, my mind started to drift. I saw beautiful things under the water. I had an urge to play. I wanted to paint, drink, float - hold the water in my hands and mouth even if only for a minute. I wanted to share the water with others, but I was so far from everyone. I couldn’t go back. This was where I was supposed to be, but where was I going anyway?
I thought I saw someone in the distance so I swam towards them, less focused, tired, but dreaming of all the things I could do if I could just get to a steady place.
I kept looking back trying to understand what I was swimming towards in the first place and if what I was now swimming towards was what I actually wanted. In my confusion and struggle, I somehow slipped under again. It was different than the other times. My arms gave out, and I didn’t care. I was fine with dissolving into the water, which felt different around me. The water was the force, and I was the obstacle. The pain of swimming so hard for so long swelled in me, and I didn’t have the strength to get back to the surface. It took all I had to just reach my hand up.
They pulled me to shore. It feels like I’ve been here forever, but it’s only been a minute. I don’t know what I’m going to do here, but for now, I’ve taken up watercolors again. Just wetting the dried blocks of paint was emotional, so I’m taking it slow.
I’ve found a new appreciation for the way the color swirls loosely and dries where the water leaves it. In the past, I tried too hard to force the paint to land exactly where I imagined it. I can pick up more paint and guide my brush, but the water is going to do what it does. I haven’t got back in the water yet, but when I do, I’ll try to be more like the paint.