Swimming in the Shallow End.
I’ve always been a fish.
A natural swimmer, a Scorpio, a creature who felt at home in the water. A few weeks ago I visited my parents in Texas for the first time since Fall 2019. It was a reunion with them, but also a reunion with one of the other loves of my life — the swimming pool.
No one had gone swimming, yet. It was mid-May, rainy and cool, hotter in Dallas than in Portland. But even with temperatures in the low 70’s, I was determined to go in. I knew I’d be the first one, but I’d always been first in the pool. I remember watching the weather with my dad and obsessively checking the pool thermometer that hung on a string and bobbed enthusiastically when I brought it to the surface. When I was little, we spent every summer at the YMCA; but when I was in second grade, we moved, got a pool, and spent summers in the backyard, instead. With friends and without, slathered in sunscreen, I was in the water every chance I got. This led to a lifelong obsession with moving my limbs underwater.
As an adult, I traded my parent’s swimming pool for the gym, mostly because I didn’t live with them, but also because those were the years of hard work and long hours at ad agencies, forcing me to sneak in treadmill time at 9 PM. But when I moved to Portland, I found my way back to water, again. There were moody beaches and bubble baths in clawfoot tubs, natural hot springs, and steamy saunas, places to soak weary bones and spirits as a defense against the gray. The first man I dated in this city was a fellow yogi. I was in yoga teacher training at the time, and our dates were dreamy: partner yoga classes and kombucha, long bike rides and hikes deep in the forest, and hot tub dates at his gym, which had a swimming pool. I hadn’t had a regular swimming practice in years, but the first time we went, I walked right past the hot tub, dove into the pool, and immediately did laps. “Wow!” I remember him shouting at me. “You’re a real swimmer!”
When Petey Sellers came into my life, I swam less at first, but eventually found my groove, again, meeting my sister at community pools around Portland. We found lanes next to each other and dove into aqua-chlorinated water, our inner children squealing with delight. Once my Bally’s membership turned into an L.A. Fitness one, and they had a pool, my regular practice returned. Petey Sellers always got his walks, but three to four times a week, I grabbed my gym bag and waved to Petey on the couch. “Going for a swim! Be right back!” I said. He always smiled at me as if to say “Yes! Go!” We both knew I emerged from the water lighter than when I went in, a joy we shared together when I came home. But then came the pandemic.
The last time I was at a pool was a few days before lockdown. Gyms shuttered, and then came surgery, a long recovery, and Petey’s lymphoma diagnosis and treatments. Time passed, variants persisted, and I didn’t swim. In the summer of 2022, I was ready to go back, but when Petey came out of remission, my greatest fears kept me from the pool. What if I got Covid and couldn’t care for Petey? What if I got Covid and Petey's health suddenly declined and I couldn’t be with him at the end? He was my beloved, and I was his caretaker and friend. It wasn’t worth the risk.
But now, there I was, standing at the edge of my parent’s pool.
I looked down at the leaves on the top and bottom, but there, in the middle, was a clear space – and I walked right into it. It was cold, but as I dove in, my body knew what to do, legs pumping and arms slicing through the blue like I’d never left. As I swam back and forth, into the deep, I could breathe, again. That’s when it hit me. For three years, I’d been swimming in the shallow end.
Most of the time when you think about grief, you think about the deep end, waves washing over you and knocking you down, time and again. But as I swam, I felt better. Before, the water was where I solved problems, got new ideas, and left stress behind. Now, as I swam from one end to the other, sunlight warming my back, I felt a freedom I hadn’t felt in years. The waves welcomed me home, and reminded me who I was: a person of lightness and joy. A girl who knew how to float. I jumped out of the pool, toweled off, and recorded this piece into my voice notes.
Seeing my parents was a revelation, and not just because of constant hugs and community, but also because there was life and color everywhere I looked. My Mom’s artistry is her garden: an aqua pool and bright blue planters; royal blue chairs and striped umbrellas; white and pink hydrangeas, budding coneflowers, and orange daylilies flanked by purple trumpet flowers in a sea of fuschia and yarrow. There were daisies and dahlias, pretty, painted rocks, and peonies from my grandmother’s garden. In the back corner, a Japanese maple towered over everything. My sister and I gave it to my parents for one of their anniversaries, and there it was, providing shade and comfort like we did for each other during the pandemic, memories tangled with nature. Inside, the house was the same, pieces of history woven between new things, little stories everywhere. Had I forgotten that their house was this way? Or after three years, had I longed to be together so much that every object I touched now had new meaning?
The pandemic isn’t over for all of us, especially my dad, who’s immunocompromised, and my mom who lives with him. It took a lot to make this trip happen (big thank you and shout-out to my BFF Jason!) but we did it! And it was everything. One morning while I was meditating, I heard Petey say: “Mom! I like Texas!” He could never visit as a dog but now, as a spirit, he can go anywhere. He can do anything! And he was there, with me. He was also there later in the day when I teared up reading the book where Snoopy runs away but eventually comes back. When he does, Charlie Brown is so happy to see him that they cry and hug each other. On the last page, they’re in bed, side by side, smiling. It reminded me so much of me and Petey. I missed my friend who used to sleep beside me, listened while I read him books, and then joined me in my dreams.
When I got back to Portland, I didn’t cry like I usually did. Over the next few days, I shed tears, but it was nothing like the deluge that usually awaited me when I returned from a trip. This time, I didn’t expect Petey to be there, but also, I was buoyed by seeing my people, giving and receiving love, and taking time off. As the week went on, instead of feeling sad, I felt inspired, rejuvenated, and ready to plant Petey’s garden. I took my grief and put it to work, spending every night and weekend weeding, clearing space, and looking at plants. Every trip, I bought a few things that spoke to me, flowers that were colorful, whimsical, and reminded me of Petey. But mostly, I planted plants that attracted bees and butterflies. Petey Sellers was still, and forever, in flying things. I dug little holes, filled them with new dirt, and gave these plants a home: salvia and yarrow, lantana and zinnia, campion and coneflower, moss rose, marigold, and so many more, adding to the already established corner I’d started in honor of my ancestors with the hellebore, daphne, and a rose, where I’d spread Gigi’s ashes years ago. As I worked, a large yellow and black butterfly danced through the sky – and has been visiting, ever since.
Petey was there, and he loved his garden. As I tended to the soil, I created something beautiful in his honor and left some of my grief behind. After the first round of planting, I sat down to write the plant names on some labels my sister gifted me. I cleaned them up and, when the pencil wouldn’t show, I switched to a black marker. I wrote their names on the front – salvia and dancing darling, pearl yarrow and lantana – and then I realized the garden needed a few other notes, too.
This last month has been all about the garden. It went from a small thing to something bigger and continues to grow. Every time I water, I think of him. And last week, the garden expanded to contain offerings from Petey’s friends. I was going to open it up, but before I could, offerings just appeared from people who loved him, too. My sister brought her expertise and starts of hosta, Solomon’s Seal, and more; Malia donated a very Petey echinacea with bright blooms; P.K. and Shelley brought back special driftwood and rocks from their place in Southern Oregon; and Nina brought a special rock and placed it in the middle while we hugged, huddled under umbrellas. “It feels like him,” she said, squeezing me. “His energy is here.” And now, his friends’ energy is there, too.
There are plans for his tree and more plants, signs and mosaics, Manzanita wood that will border it, and offerings from anyone who wants to contribute. Petey plants are not just in this corner, they’re all over the garden, a love that could not be contained. July will see gatherings, because the garden, like life, is always a work in progress. And the weekends I spent digging in the dirt were not only an inspiration from gardening with my mom, but also an extension of my love for her; a way to connect with my sister; and a chance to work outside, quiet and alone, which continued to bring me back. There, in the silence, I communed with my beloved. There, in the silence, I communed with myself.
Today is the second week of #1000wordsofsummer, the first summer I’ve participated without Petey by my side. I wrote about our five previous #1000wordsofsummers here as a tribute to the project and our writing life. Petey is a character in the current book I’m finishing, so it’s been sad a few times, but mostly, it’s been a joy. He’s popped in and out of the story, and I’ve felt him by my side, cheering me on like he always did. Petey Sellers loved #1000wordsofsummer because, outside of swimming, he knew I was always happiest when I was doing the work. “Mom!” he said when he showed up the other day. “Keep taking risks!”
I’ve always thought of this project as risky. Not in a big way, but in the way you have to show up, every single day for fourteen days, and put yourself on the page. If you write books, it’s always this way, but something about this community project has its own persistence and magic, thanks to daily letters and social community. I love that risk isn’t just reserved for scaling Mt. Everest or opening back up to love again, it’s making one small move toward something bigger. Petey Sellers and the life we created will always be a part of me. He’s with me in every word I write, and in everything I do. But letting go, little by little, makes space for new things to come in. So I’m here, hands to the sky, hands to my heart, hands in the water, back in the world, swimming in the deep. As I type, Petey’s voice pipes up like the good friend I’ve always needed. “Mom,” I hear him say. “You can’t do everything at once. But you can do EVERYTHING.”
Here’s to a summer full of EVERYTHING, my friends. We love you, Petey! Let’s play.
Stickers!
They’re back! By popular demand, I’ve put in another order for more Petey Stickers, which are obviously the start of a fabulous summer. Details to come, but let me know if you need a little magic! They brighten up every water bottle, planter, and notebook. Petey magic for everyone! As always, thanks for reading, sharing, and subscribing. xo
I've been following this blog since the beginning. I just love the love that comes through in your description of your visit with your parents. May we all be so lucky to have at least one visit with our parents as adults that's as healing and beautiful as this one! Thank you, Kari!
Here's a link to the wonderful #1000wordsofsummer that I mentioned in my post that's happening right now. Join in! Sign up for next summer! It's such a risk – and such a gift: https://1000wordsofsummer.substack.com/p/day-13-of-1000wordsofsummer-2023