Chris tells me I’m the only person who can float on their back. I know this can’t be true. But when my niece and nephew were over for the 4th of July weekend, we tested his theory. Each of us attempted a graceful float in the pool, with me the only one able. “You literally do nothing,” I instruct them. “Just gently push your legs up from the bottom, lay back, and let go of control.” I do that and float to the top like a fishing bobber. Everyone is impressed at my mostly useless skill.
Besides being the best thing that happened to an aunt with the kids over for a few summer days, this 3-foot-deep, 15-foot-round treasure — gifted to me by a friend (thanks, Laura!) — allows plenty of room to float. No need for an inflatable, just me on the surface, thinking, not thinking, letting go. Ears submerged with only my face exposed, I meld into the sky, drifting with the clouds. Different shapes appear as the fluffs shift and separate and swirl until they move on or dissolve into a sea of white. Different shades of green leaves tousle in the breeze above me as light and shadow play between them. I drift until I no longer feel my body. Some days it’s gray, and those are good float days, too. But I’ve found, with all this sky-watching, that the hawks are always circling.
I begin to notice their patterns, mostly figure eights in the sky, sometimes impossibly hovering mid-air, maneuvering their tail feathers with precision, using the mechanics of that impressive wingspan to soar and turn and rocket down toward prey upon sight. Today, I watched a pair, what appeared to be a street or so to the north, do their neighborhood rounds, eventually making their way overhead. They split off to more efficiently cover ground, I assume. Maybe one of them noticed me noticing it because it lingered a little longer over my yard, circling above the pool and my floating body. I got a good look at its movements and coloring, a beautiful bird. But also a bit ominous: the circling, scouring the earth for its next victim.
Ears under water, I hear my breath, loud against my muted external surroundings. I think about two people we’ve lost within the past month; one to suicide, another to overdose. I think the hawks could represent death — the reality for us all that no one wants to mention, looming. Maybe they instead represent anxiety — the pervasive and intrusive thoughts that make us feel less than or underappreciated or imperfect. Circling in our minds. I wonder what things must have kept my friends in the shadows, what circled incessantly overhead.
I think about how every person, from all walks, from simply living life has some form of “hawks circling.” How so many forget that. You judge. You don’t listen. You become so buried in your own existence that you lose empathy. You disagree and argue. You don’t open your mind to the ideas of others. You criticize without offering solutions. Suddenly, everyone else has mental health issues but you. Criminals of any kind are scum. Immigrants are no longer human. Addicts have made their choice and won some often-cited “Darwin Award” for big dummies who want to die. Hate is the norm. It’s best to stay out of comments sections on social media if you still have a shred of compassion. It’s a dangerous place out there. The hawks are circling.
But floating in the pool, suspended in a sensory-deprived state, my thoughts go back to all the people we’ve lost, to the people who are still struggling. I hear my breath, I feel an aching tinge in my chest, and I let go. The hawks glide around above, but I close my eyes and fade into self, whatever that presence is deep within, behind the thoughts. I can no longer feel my body, but that spirit, that inner knowing, tells me I’m safe. Everything is okay. Even when the hawks are circling.
