reincarnation
skinny dipping isn't just revealing, it's revelatory.
The waterfalls are beckoning.
There’s three of them, all watching me, as I wade through the rocks to the pool at their feet. It’s late November. Early morning. And apart from the mist off the falls, I’m not wearing a thing.
Yep, my idea of wintering is going skinny dipping.
You may think me mad. Perhaps even a little risqué. And while i rather like both of those impressions, it’s so much more than that for me.
First is the need for somewhere secluded, lest, heaven forbid, anyone find you indecent. As far as i’m concerned, any activity that takes you into the wild can only be a good thing. But living in Ireland we’re treated to little extra mystique. I’m not sure there’s anywhere on this island that doesn’t feel enchanted. From hidden glades to black lakes, misty isles to mossy streams. If you’re really lucky you’ll happen upon a ‘thin place’, where the veil between this world and the other world is particularly thin. Where you may arrive as a woman, but leave as a fawn. Or faerie. Or river nymph.
But this idea of transformation is more than mere fantasy. Every time I step into the water, I feel a shift in me.
I’ve always been a sensitive creature. In the words of Sylvia Plath, “I don’t know what it is like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely.” Anxiety. Depression. Secret compulsions. Disordered eating. I’ve been there. At times I’m still there. but when you dive into freezing water the shock to the nervous system is so great that it’s almost impossible to feel anything else. For that brief, breathless moment, I’m granted a reprieve.
That in itself is a gift. But doing it naked? A whole other kind of magic. Every sensation is nearer. Clearer. More intimate. The involuntary gasp of air that brings me back to my breath. The quickening of my pulse that reminds me of the organ in my chest. The tensing of my muscles. The stinging of my limbs. Even the laugh I can’t contain are all affirmations that I am living, breathing being.
It sounds so simple. To be reminded that we are alive. But we forget it, don’t we? Nudity here is not sexual, but sensory.
I venture a little further, beyond the safety of the rocks. The water is darker here. Icier.
‘Wow, you must be brave.’ Whenever I tell people about this ritual this is usually the response. I don’t know how to tell them that, actually, I’m not. Or rather, bravery in this instance is not the requisite but the result. When i go skinny dipping, I am reminded that i am the kind of woman that goes skinny dipping. That i am sensual. And spontaneous. And strong.
And the best part? The effects last much longer than the swim itself.
I resist the urge to wrap my arms around my middle, which is softer than it used to be. There is no hiding here. The body will take up the space it deserves. The space it needs. For this is another thing I’ve learnt from these dips. Smaller isn’t always better. Last year, for instance, I was larger than ever and all the lovelier for it. And not just because of the little bub inside my belly.
It is not until moments like this, however, that I can fully comprehend this metamorphosis. It is not until I’m wearing nothing but my body that I can begin to appreciate all she’s achieved. And with each new change I notice - each new wrinkle or crinkle or delicious fold of flesh - I am bearing witness to the inexplicable wonder that is a woman.
If you were to watch from the mossy shore you might notice that my nipples are a little darker, one of my breasts a little fuller. You might realise, in other words, that I’m still breastfeeding. But unless you’re a fellow dipper, I’m not interested in an audience. There is no part of this practice that is provocative. Or performative. This is for no one but me.
The water rises up my navel, past my hips, my waist, my chest. A little sun hits the falls, gilding the spray.
There’s something about this location that feel particularly significant. Maybe it's the fact that its a triple waterfall, as if I were summoned by the triple goddess herself. I also don’t miss the fact that I’m not drawn to any of the falls in particular but rather to the point where they meet. For while I embrace the title of ‘mother’, I’m not yet ready to let go of the maiden, just as the crone, i’m sure, has already made an appearance. Standing at the convergence, I choose all three.
“A woman is a changeling.” Florence Welch sings. “Just when you think you have it figured out something new begins to take.” I’m not sure i have anything figured out, let alone my identity. Looking back, I have been so many different women over the years it’s hard to know which, if any, were real. But becoming a mother? It has undressed me completely.
It seems I am hardly the first to feel this way, either.
There’s an old Celtic tradition of women visiting sacred bodies of water. Sometimes the women would bathe. Sometimes the women would drink. Sometimes they would tie a small piece of cloth to a nearby tree. The clootie, as it was known, was a form of offering that, once dissolved, would wash away whatever was ailing them.
I wish I could tell these women that hot water may have more affective. And yet here I am, centuries later, doing exactly the same thing. I, too, am making a pilgrimage. I, too, am seeking relief. As for my ailments? Anything that no longer serves me. Expectations. Limitations. Labels. Fables. Fears.
I let it all wash downstream.
The current is stronger here, enough that i have to dig in my toes. And as it rushes around me I start to imagine all the ailments - all the inhibitions - that must be flowing through Irish rivers. I wonder if this is why the water here is so cold. Or why Irish women are some of the freest i know.
I wonder if knickers will suffice as a clootie.
I sink in deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Until my boundaries soften with my skin. Until i am more water than woman. Until at last, when I submerge, I surrender completely.
“The water in your body is just visiting. It was a thunderstorm a week ago. It will be the ocean soon enough. Most of your cells come and go like morning dew.”
A beautiful reminder from poet Jarod K Anderson, that every time I visit the water she is as much a visitor in me. I wonder, does water ever forget herself? If so, I like to think she gets something out of these encounters, too.
By the time I resurface, my body is a rush of sensation. And I think, this is what it much feel like. Reincarnation.
Still think me mad? I sincerely hope so. For I am no ordinary woman and this is no ordinary swim. This a baptism. A rebirth. A reimagining of my worth.
I am mother. Maiden. Pilgrim. I am faerie. Goddess. Mist.
The waterfalls are beckoning. And who am I to resist?
This is a post from Cypselae by Morgan Grace. If you like my writing, please consider subscribing. Paid subscribers will even receive their own bespoke poem. More info here.
A companion for your previous post perhaps? Since nothing beats skinny dipping in the dark, especially with the one you love X
Beautiful post