Breathing Under Water

I came across a book several months ago by Richard Rohr, titled Breathing Under Water: Spirituality and the Twelve Steps. The introduction to the book included the following poem by Sr. Carol Bieleck, RSCJ:

Breathing Under Water

I built my house by the sea.
Not on the sands, mind you;
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.

A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.
Good neighbors.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences.
Respectful, keeping our distance,
but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.
Always, the fence of sand our barrier,
always, the sand between.

And then one day,
-and I still don’t know how it happened –
the sea came.
Without warning.

Without welcome, even
Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine,
less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.
Slow, but coming.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight and I thought of drowning and I thought of death.
And while I thought the sea crept higher, till it reached my door.
And I knew, then, there was neither flight, nor death, nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling, you stop being neighbors,
Well acquainted, friendly-at-a-distance neighbors,
And you give your house for a coral castle,
And you learn to breathe underwater.

Go back and read it out loud. The words give me chills.

I celebrated one year of recovery this week. It means a lot to have made it through an entire year of meetings and step work, mostly because I have a pattern of throwing myself into new endeavors with gusto, only to find my enthusiasm fizzles out after a few weeks. But I’ve stuck to it for a whole year, and although today feels like a bit of a victory for reaching one year of recovery, I know that tomorrow will be one year and one day of recovery.  This is not the end, merely the beginning.

I’ve been thinking a lot over the past few days about how I got into recovery.  My life was that house in the poem, seemingly strong and sturdy. I was aware of my past, the neighboring sea that stayed far away from my house, but I wasn’t going to be held back because of it. No, I was going to do things differently. The sea would stay in its place, and I would stay in mine and live a perfect, happy life. Sure I made mistakes, but I was certain a year ago that I was okay, that my life was fine and that nothing could shake me.

And then the sea came in, and everything I thought I knew, everything I thought I had…turned out to be a façade. My strong house collapsed and nearly took me with it.

For the last year, I have been submerged, learning how to breathe under water. I have been learning how to tell my stories out loud. I’ve been learning how to identify safe people to hear my stories. I’ve been learning about the difference between powerlessness and helplessness; I am powerless over many things, but I am not as helpless as I believed I was and I can do things. Big things.

I’ve been learning how to live each day without worrying about knowing the end of the story. I have been learning how to have better relationships with people I love, and how to treat them with kindness. I’ve been learning that starts by having a better relationship with myself, and to treat myself with kindness.  I’ve been learning how to tell the truth, no matter how difficult it seems to do it. I’ve been learning that I can make mistakes, but that I am not a mistake.

The poem promises “a coral castle” in exchange for my fragile house. I get to live in a castle! A castle built with love and hope and dreams and the awareness that I am not alone, in my little world or in the greater universe. It’s my new home.

I breathe slowly, deeply…in…and out…and know in my heart that I can do this.  For today, I can live…breathing under water.

Blessed be.

  1. Charlie Reply

    Wonderful poem—-article.

  2. Anon Reply

    Thanks for the repost of the poem in Fr Rohr’s book, and much more for your personal experience. I hope that your first year in recovery has turned into more and better.
    My own recovery now spanning more than 25 years has been hot and cold, weak and strong. Sobriety now is more dear to me than during the middle years. Not coincidentally those middle years I describe as coasting along peacefully by myself. Disengaged.
    Fortunately some unknown thing awoke me from somnambulance and led me gradually back to a path of working and doing. For me, engagement in the messy world with other messy people is where the really good stuff happens. Where the God stuff happens.

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