Mary Lou Sanelli
I believe it was midway through my forties when I started to realize that Thanksgiving through New Years is not my time.
I reached a point where I no longer seemed to care much about “the holidays,” but my husband cares, and I care about him, and somehow, I manage to summon enough festive oomph to please him, which pleases me.
It’s not like I fall into a depression or anything. I get stirred up, is all, and a residual blue rises to the surface. To counter it, I make myself do all kinds of things that need doing. I clean out the fridge, above the fridge, under the fridge. I answer emails I’ve let sit. I sew on a button.
This behavior will continue right up through New Year’s Day. Which might seem excessive to some. But when you are peering through a blue lens, you don’t want to withdraw. Withdraw? Never. Do!
But all this doing, to me, is still a far less complicated test of my patience than trying to finagle a pie crust or stuff a bird. Actually, it has nothing to do with holiday rituals at all, but with nature’s. When every leaf has been stripped from the trees, I find myself imagining not a white Christmas, but the uncurling leaves of the first white trillium; that patch of white on a robin’s underbelly growing thick with eggs so that I wonder how on earth she can flit over the grass under the accumulated weight of herself.
LAP THERAPY
Luckily, we have our public pool that is everything I cannot take for granted about swimming in this part of the world in winter. As I ease into my laps, the reality of everything seems more distinct somehow. And I don’t mean just the beautiful things like a sudden burst of sunlight through the lobby windows or the younger swimmers with stomachs you could balance stemware on, but older bodies crammed into spandex and way too many sweaty men in the sauna at once.
I’m even able to think about my problems more positively. Not like a resolution to do better, just a steady sense that everything is moving along as it should, steadily, in keeping with my stroke. What exercise could be better than that?
The first time I ever watched a real swimmer was the first time I ever saw myself as a swimmer and thought, that’s how I want to feel, immersed. (I guess I’ve always liked my solitude.) I’d just watched Million Dollar Mermaid starring Ester Williams. My mother was mesmerized by Ester. I remember her collection of Ester one-pieces, a pink one, a polka dot one, one with little skirt around her bum. My father, on the other hand, lived 98 years without ever pulling on a bathing suit, as far as I know. I didn’t know how to express what I felt when I had the pool to myself after a lousy day at school, but I know now: I swam then, as I swim today, to free myself, to find myself, to feel capable, healthy, whole.
DIFFERENT STROKES
If I can’t get a lane to myself (there is an impressive number of swimmers at certain hours) there’s a woman I tread water with at the edge of the pool who has a lot to say about everything, and by that, I mean, everything she doesn’t like. We laugh, more comfortable in out floating personas than we will be later in the showers — another thing I love about swimming.
Another swimmer says little when we tread together. I get the feeling she is so comfortable with herself that she has no great need to converse. I tread close, but not too close.
There was a time when I thought I’d never engage in chitchat at the pool, so I don’t know if it’s the close proximity of our half-naked bodies, or the way we spend this time connecting without the use of technology, protecting our human need of recognizing and acknowledging each other, but I find myself sharing more about myself than I usually do.
To get there, I ride my bike, and once, on my way, I saw a huge owl. After skidding to a stop, there I stood, indifferent to everything else around me but that incredible owl. In that moment I was the most intrigued and the least afraid of any creature, ever, especially one that seemed to want only a better look at me while, at the same time, minding more than its own business. Much like my fellow swimmers.
If you don’t swim, there’s always the sauna where it’s rare that anyone speaks. Though recently I heard one man tell another not to fear AI. “Technology itself isn’t scary,” he said. “It’s that our media and politics are led by extremists, all citing our fear of technology for their own purposes.” If a stranger’s message can infiltrate one’s soul, his infiltrated mine.
Honestly, I’m not sure how I’d do without swimming. Like reading under the covers or taking a long hot bath after a long cold walk, I can’t imagine facing winter without it.
I know the year will turn, February will whiz by, and the first fragile tulips will appear, which if you’ve ever held a tulip bulb in your hand you know they’re not fragile at all.
And, oh, just the thought of the season I love most (until hydrangeas bloom and then I love summer the most) does make me want to celebrate. I suppose I could at least look at the turkeys. I love food shopping: it’s something I’ve always enjoyed; it helps me feel part of the festive world.
I’ll stop by the grocery on my way home from the pool.
Mary Lou Sanelli's newest title, In So Many Words: Three Years, Two Months, One Me has been nominated for a 2025 Washington State Book Award. She also works as a speaker and a master dance teacher. For more information visit www.marylousanelli.com