The In-Between (November 13, 2025)

 It feels like I am suspended in water.

It is a lake because there are weed patches below me, into which I will fall if I sink any lower. Once in the weed patch, there will be no way to find me. And if I get tangled in the weeds, my body will never rise to the surface. I will be gone, and all the bottom feeders will feed on or off me.

Above me, I see light at the undulating surface. I know that is “up” because the light contrasts with the murky depths below me.

I can’t see anything clearly. I just know it’s there.

I am suspended between both - light and dark.

I quit thrashing a while back; it only saps my energy, hastening a sure descent if I keep it up.

So I hold my breath. For how long? I don’t know.

I await signals and signs to make my next move. Will it be a rope, brought low to pull me to the surface? Will a diver arrive and find me - my rescuer - helping me to leave this place? I doubt it. It’s a long stretch. Will there be others who will float toward me? Are there more here than just me? Also doubtful.

And yet, as my eyes drift upward, I see the light and I know, or at least, I hope someone is up there. I know there is a boat somewhere above me. I don’t know where, but I know someone had to have seen me tumble into the water, and is aware of my location.

I believe it. I hope it. I wait.

At first, the water was a shock. At first, I fought vigorously, trying to keep my head above water. At last, I stopped moving. Yes, I sank, and continue to sink, but as I have discovered, a slight flick of my wrists is enough to reorient me - not higher, but not lower either.

How long can I hold my breath? It turns out, for far longer than I thought I could. But even then, there will come a time when holding my breath is no longer an option. It’s just a delay. But for what?

Am I supposed to use the last little bit of oxygen and energy to try to propel myself to the surface? Or, am I just supposed to exhale - give away all that I have left - and trust the process?

I don’t know.

Trying to control the situation has just tired me out. So now, I float and wait. Drift and wait.

It’s not where I want to be. But it’s not terrible either. The longer I sit, the more I see things differently.

I have always been afraid of the weeds, and what lurks therein. What I see now are fish, of all kinds, colors, and lengths, darting in and out, paying me no mind. Perhaps, they are curious - a few of the wee ones approach me because they know no better. They are just inquisitive children, who are piqued by the novelty of a new creature in their midsts. Most, however, ignore me. I’m of no concern to them as long as I don’t attack. To them, I’m just another water creature inhabiting this underwater world.

It occurs to me then that maybe this is where I am supposed to be. The time for being afraid has passed. It’s time to look at an old fear with a new perspective.

Living in fear was not living. I’ve been holding my breath, only on land. There, gravity always pulls down, demanding its way. Here, gravity is suspended. It means very little. There, I thought I could see everything clearly. Here, everything is murky and unclear - everything, except that which is directly in front of me. There, I thought I could control it; I thought that my actions and attention could procure the desired result. Here, no action is the best action. Suspension - floating - has slowed me, and allows me to think more clearly and objectively.

And so, for now, I wait.