Still Waters
Mindfulness
Seven long, strong strokes and a breath on the right side. Seven long strokes and a breath on the left. Arms slicing through the water, legs scissoring behind him, heart pounding against his ribs. Seven strokes, breathe. Seven strokes, breathe.
It was almost like meditation, this focused attention to breath and body. "Mindfulness," the ancient Buddhists had called it, and he was certainly mindful of his lungs expelling air with every stroke, of the cool liquid gliding over his skin and the smooth, powerful way his body moved through the water.
Seven strokes. Breathe.
Seven strokes. Breathe.
Meditative though the practice was, it was utterly unlike the form of meditation he had been taught as a youth, in which awareness of the body is purged in favor of pure thought. In this new, mindful state, he allowed every thought, every feeling, to wander through his consciousness without judgment. The looming personnel report surfaced in his mind and he acknowledged it and set it aside. The rush of moving water filled his ears and he listened carefully to it, then set it aside in favor of his focus, his mantra in the water.
Seven strokes.
Breathe.
This was an entirely physical meditation, different from any he had ever attempted as a younger man. Every muscle, every sinew worked together with lungs and heart and brain to propel him through the water. He permitted himself to feel every part of himself, to appreciate his body's discipline and strength. At the end of the pool he ducked his head and executed a quick flip turn. His feet hit the retaining wall and he uncurled his long legs, pushing off through a cloud of bubbles left in the wake of the turn. He glided, stretching, bubbles glancing off his skin, until his momentum slowed, then he found the rhythm again.
Seven strokes. Breathe.
Seven strokes. Breathe.
He had never expected to find himself here, swimming lap after lap in the ship's early morning hours. He had never been one to seek out forms of exercise in addition to the self-defense and general fitness his position demanded. Each year he passed his mandated physical with ease, weighing in at the low end of acceptable mass for his height and genetic makeup, but acceptable nevertheless. It had never occurred to him that he might someday want to supplement the required physical regimen with more exercise. It seemed even less likely that he would find greatest satisfaction by swimming in cool water.
But there was no denying that the did, in fact, enjoy the efficiency of this body, its natural rhythm in the water and the way it—he—responded to the hours spent in the pool.
After three months of regular training, he'd had to order different uniforms—broader in the chest and shoulders, narrower in the waist—to accommodate his changing physique.
It was one change among many. Change had become a constant in his life of these last six months. Previously, the unending changes would have disturbed his precarious equanimity. He would have withdrawn into himself for fear of outwardly betraying his loss of balance. Now, however, he could accept both the changes and the fears they engendered. They were a part of him too, no less than the thoughts whispering in his head, the muscles moving beneath his skin, the heart beating in his side.
This too was a change, this calm acceptance of his own emotional life.
I change, he thought, moving rhythmically through the cool water. Is this not the essence of life? To adapt to new circumstances? To...evolve?
If change was to be the way of his life, was it not logical to embrace it?
He held the thought up for examination, sensed the seed of enlightenment there, and set it aside.
Seven strokes. Breathe.
Seven strokes. Breathe.
The underwater speakers crackled to life. "Kirk to Spock."
He lowered his chin to his chest, sprinted the last dozen strokes to the wall and raised himself to the deck in one fluid motion, water rolling off him in waves. He ran a towel over his torso and thumbed the wall communicator.
"Spock here."
"New orders coming in from Command. My office in twenty minutes."
"Acknowledged. Spock out."
He stepped into the pool's refresher unit and stripped off his wet swim trunks. In ten minutes he was dry and dressed, every centimeter the model Starfleet officer, striding through the Enterprise A's quietly bustling corridors. But the calm of the pool stayed with him as he moved mindfully, prepared to go where the day would take him.