This piece was inspired by a recent trip to Alonissus, Greece, as well as a beautiful line by the famed poet Mary Oliver.

So this is how you swim inward. So this is how you flow outwards. So this is how you pray. – Mary Oliver

I have stripped off my dress, maneuvered across the hot stones to the sharp edge between land and sea, and begun to descend the ladder to the secret swimming hole. Although the day is hot, my body covered with sweat from the short walk here, I want to change my mind as soon as one foot touches the water. It is too cold for me.

I feel the temperature of the water all the way to my teeth even though only a part of my right foot is submerged.

What feels like minutes of internal dialogue follow:

How foolish for you to come out here and not go in.

But who says I have to? There is no Greek code that says I will not have experienced the country sufficiently if I don’t submerge myself in the offendingly icy water.

Back and forth – berate and relent.

My right foot is going a little numb now so I step my left foot down to the same rung on the ladder. It hurts just as much.

An eternity of negotiation, and I am in, up to my armpits, the whole time exclaiming that I can’t go in. But my arms stay tightly wrapped around the ladder. It is too much to think about full immersion.

What is this exercise I am creating for myself? A test of will, mastery of the elements, perseverance? The fact that this body of water has drawn so many others here does not ease my struggle. I am not them.

Something releases my arms and pulls me away from the ladder and the rocks. I am swimming.

I am still cold, but it is bearable. And for a string of glorious moments, I stroke and kick toward to the belly of the sea, then let myself float back on the waves that effortlessly carry me.

Swim and release. Effort and rest. Strive and surrender. This is my prayer, my dance with the Divine.

What does your dance look like?