It was a moonless night, but a magic key cut the dark watery mark. Before the jump from the stone bridge, I knew. It had to be one and done. No time to hesitate. 

Budapest. 1996. The smack and shock of the icy water might have sucked the breath from me if I weren’t so acutely aware that a hundred cold people who didn’t speak my language were silently watching as I went under the surface. I have a vague memory of someone on the shore in a wetsuit, but as far as I could tell, I was on my own.

My life didn’t flash before my eyes. I wasn’t afraid. Swimming in an ancient castle moat in my wedding dress at midnight in the middle of winter was a spectacular ask. I missed catching the diamond ring, but I did catch the brass one. Who gets to do such things? I don’t know anyone who has jumped off a bridge to surface and splash in an ancient castle moat. Do you? And in a wedding dress? At midnight? In the middle of winter? Delicious contrast! I finally broke the surface in a properly unhinged romcom monster from the black lagoon rage for at least four minutes before our director was satisfied and yelled, “Cut!”

“You okay, Jane?” he sang over the bridge to me.

“Fantastic, thanks,” I called back. “Did you get it?” 

“Checking the gate! Hang tight.” Checking the gate is a final check of the last shot to ensure it is technically perfect, from framing to ensuring there isn’t a hair or dust on the lens that might ruin what was shot.

A swan drawn from her nest by my noise glided by at a distance. Ah, that was the stench that rolled down my face with my mascara. Without waiting for “It’s a wrap!” I began to swim toward the castle, my long, white gown getting heavier by the minute. The crew had snapped to duty, busily packing up the 10K and coiling cable with elegant ease. My teeth chattered noisily, but with each stroke, I was silently drinking deeply from this now quiet, sensual night. Shoes long gone, my bare feet sank into the deep sludge as I waded to the shore through cattails. 

Arms from the wardrobe department met me on the edge and wrapped towels around my shoulders before spiriting me to a tiny shower, two spiraling flights up a turret to rinse swan, duck, and mud hen poop from my hair and all undress. The muddy, once-white silk dress dropped with a thwack, destroyed by story tale heartbreak, greed, and love of family. Hungarian words were whispered around me as the women pulled each pearl-tipped bobby pin from my French twist, undoing the spell of all we created.

Swan songs. A memory for all time.  Because who does this?

A reverie of joy like this is a magic carpet for the future. In my old acting classes, an experience like this would and was put in my acting “tool bag” to use later for eliciting helpful emotions, like wonder, shock, appreciation, laughter, or even the mix of disgust. The wet fowl smells were indeed foul. But precious. Into the tool bag it went, because who does this?

How might memories like this, or ones far simpler, serve the everyday woman? Our spirit craves the full spectrum of emotions, especially when rebalancing fear, anger, or hopelessness. Some self-soothe with food. I travel and transmute reality for work and joyful connection without drugs or alcohol.

I call this spiritual athleticism–simple ways akin to mini-meditations that immediately nourish and strengthen the spirit as they feed endorphins. 

Here’s one:

With closed or soft eyes, give gratitude and let your consciousness remember your favorite childhood place. Look with your mind’s eye. What colors or shapes pull you nearer? What objects does your heart discover? Are there textures that your fingers find? How about the scent? Is there a sound? Voices? 

Write it all down. Get specific, and if anything arises in your memory that feels “too big,” bring your awareness to your breath and refocus. Play with place. Evoke your favorite times. Invite bliss.

You are love. You create reality. You can nourish every cell of your being with music and memory. Rinse the crap out of your hair and sing from your own swan song to your sweetest fairytale encounter. Tis the season of going within and drawing from the moonless dark the light that is you. Your tool bag is a bountiful one, full of every kind of story that can be used for your most joyous replenishing.