Restless Waters: Reflections on a Yearning for a Swimming Pool

Restless Waters: Reflections on a Yearning for a Swimming Pool

I find myself often quietly contemplating the gentle flickers of desire that hum beneath my daily routine, twisting like tendrils of ivy around my thoughts and muting the abrasive edges of modern living. Among these persistent longings, one stands out with a shimmer quite singular – the yearning for a swimming pool. At first glance, such a desire might seem purely frivolous, driven by the vanity of aging and the softening of flesh over time. But diving deeper, I understand that the yearning springs not just from the flesh but from the spirit.

There's a vulnerability in admitting that I seek a pool partly to soothe the anxiety of a body that no longer feels entirely my own. Once, my frame was taut and rangy, quick to recover from minor excesses and indulgences. But now, as the years unfurl their stories upon my skin, I see the silhouette of a man more rounded, beaten gentle by time, softer, fuller. The flab becomes an unwelcome specter, glistening under the harsh fluorescents of public swimming pools. And oh, the embarrassment of catching those furtive, pitying glances! Their eyes, like needles, puncture the sanctity of solitude I sought in public pools.

Yet, there is more here than the pursuit of a more refined figure. So much more.

Last summer, I fled to Europe, away from the familiar constraints of everyday life, yearning for something nameless and profound. London greeted me first with its relentless rain, each drop a silvery sigh against a brooding sky. It was ironic, really – a city renowned for its drizzle greeting a man seeking the embrace of water. My journey then passed through France, where I lodged in a remote farmhouse, a relic of another era, lovingly converted yet holding traces of the past in its very bones. The farmhouse, cradled by green, lush expanses, boasted its own idiosyncratic oasis – a swimming pool that beckoned with quiet pride.

It was there, surrounded by the rustic charm of the French countryside, that I felt the first true pangs of what it means to find sanctuary in water. This pool was not a pristine, geometric marvel; it was flawed, filled with endearing imperfections. The tiling wavered with an almost human hesitance, and the floor's gentle undulations mimicked the uncertain footing of life itself. It was in that womb-like basin of liquid serenity that I first found a fleeting sense of home away from home.

Journeying south, Spain unveiled itself in incredulously vivid hues – the Andalusian mountains rising majestically, their peaks kissed by sunlight, their shadows deep and secretive. My abode there, a villa shepherded by the mountains and the distant murmur of the sea, held yet another liquid sanctuary, a pool built by John, an expatriate whose hands had shaped dreams into reality. His pool mirrored his spirit – unorthodox, capricious, but profoundly endearing. The measurements, unlike the cold precision of modern constructs, held a fluidity that comforted the soul.

Water, I learned, held memory. Each lap in John's pool unraveled stories, his and mine, intertwined amidst the uneven tiles and the floor's unpredictable descent. Here, against the backdrop of Spanish vistas, I found conversations with myself more profound than any sight-seeing could provide. The pool became a place where the soul could float, unanchored by the stresses of time and place, buoyed by the simple magic of existence. Days bled into each other, not in forgetfulness but in a deepening appreciation of now – a state often elusive in the frantic grasping of our daily lives.

The pool in France had its deep end, a plunge into the unknown that I found daunting yet exhilarating. Its underwater ledge was a playground where the inner child I thought long-buried emerged, laughing and gasping in pure delight as I chased, or was chased, in a merry dance with fellow sojourners. It reminded me how long it had been since I unrestrained my spirit to the simple joys of play, the kind that erases the wrinkles of worry from one's mind.

But herein lies the bittersweet paradox of such idyllic escapes. How little of the land did I truly see! Caught in the loving arms of these unique pools, the local charms of France and Spain remained veiled to me, their stories untold and their landscapes unexplored. I felt regret and yet an understanding that sometimes, immersion doesn't need to be far and wide but deep and full, even if confined within the boundaries of a pool.

In reminiscing these glimpses of unadulterated joy and reflection, I find myself at another crossroad of choices. Another year, another chance to weave memories in far-flung cabins with lakes, where the stillness of nature's own pool may whisper different truths to my restless soul. Yet, there's a quiet call now, a yearning not for transient dips but a permanence—a pool that I can call my own.

In considering building my sanctuary, I envision it not as a symbol of luxury but as a wellspring of introspective peace. Each tile would tell a story, each lap a meditation. I would build it not as a flawless modern construct but as a vessel for human emotion. It would hold the imperfections of life – the uneven steps mimicking our journey, the gentle slopes representing the gentle declines we must all face.

As I imagine the interplay of sunlight on water, the soft splash that breaks the tranquil surface, I see this pool as a place where my evolving self can find solace. The yearning for a pool thus transforms from a simple desire for physical fitness into a quest for emotional resonance. In the quiet embrace of my own crafted pool, with the sky reflected in its deep blue expanse, perhaps I will find not just a healthier body, but a soul more attuned to the delicate rhythms of life.

In these dreams, swimming becomes not just an act of movement but a dance of the spirit, a solitary serenade, a place where the world's noise fades into the lulling cadence of water touching skin. My desire for a swimming pool, then, is not merely about vanity or the fear of public judgement; it is about forging a connection, an intimate dialogue with oneself and the universe, whispered in ripples and reflected in the clear, honest embrace of water.