GO FOR THE HIGH DIVE

During the summer of ‘91 our vacation months were spent using our season pass to the local public pool. We loved it and spent a lot of time there. Not only was it an affordable way for the six us to have seasonal fun, my mom was an excellent swimmer and had been all her life. She loved being in the water. In fact, she and her siblings swam competitively on the high school swim team. Each claimed their own specialty—Mom’s was breaststroke. Those Irish–Lithuanian siblings were such good swimmers. Their records even held for years after graduation. 

On a sunny summer day in 1991 when “adult swim” was called for 15 min at our public pool, Mom demonstrated those skills. The deal was that the kids ruled the pool. We made up aquatic games, held cannon ball competitions, walked on our hands under water, and tried to guess what each other was saying while sitting on the bottom. 45 minutes out of every hour at the pool was dedicated to the kid’s play. And then, the lifeguards blew their whistles. “Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!” There it was. Silence. 15 minutes of Adult Swim. All the kids reluctantly paddled over to the side, pulled themselves out, and splatter-stepped back to the family patch of towels for sunbathing, snacking, reading, talking to friends, or playing volleyball and shuffleboard on the courts nearby. Most of the time my three siblings and I brought our snacks from home—pretzels and apples, etc. Sometimes we had enough money for a Lick n’ Dip, a Big Chew, or my favorite, a Good Humor Strawberry Shortcake ice cream bar.

Occasionally Mom would join the other parents and old biddies in swim caps as they took advantage of the serene surface during that precious 15 minutes. She was always beautiful. Short chestnut hair was slicked back. Her lightly freckled skin was tan and baked warm after drying it under the August sun. Nutrition and exercise were very important to her, and it showed. On this particular summer afternoon, wearing a black one-piece with white bows connecting the front, and her trademark low-cut back, Mom decided to do something a little more exciting, a little more thrilling than the usual, casual dip. For whatever reason, the mood struck her, she had a notion–as they say. She was gonna do flips off the high dive. I almost missed the whole thing.

“Did you see that lady?”
“She’s doin’ jumps off the high dive…somebody’s… mom.”
“Look, she’s goin’ again!”

My head whipped around. What? My mom? Oh, there she was… actually flying through the air! I did a double-take, jaw dropped, to see my mom acting like an aquatic superhero. Splash! She quickly swam to the side, gracefully pulled herself up out of the pool, and swiftly returned to the platform, sprinkling drops of water in her wake. Standing on the highest platform, her sleek, 5’7″ frame paused a moment at the edge. I watched her take a breath, bounce and fly into her jackknife dive, barely making a splash into the water. Then another ascent to the top of the platform, another flight into the air. That next elegant splash was met with wild applause. People were clapping and gesturing toward what was becoming the afternoon’s main event. Enthusiastic chatter was now spreading across the pool yard blankets. The other adult swimmers bobbed over to the safety rope dividing the deep end from the diving area, like lining up at the front row of a concert. Once again Mom popped out of the pool and up the high dive ladder. Spectators were now taking pictures of her pool-side performance, perhaps moved by the excitement of the moment. The games on the courts paused. Kids were pointing and shouting, “look”!

I was beaming from ear to ear. The whole lot of pool goers were cheering and clapping; I let my claps linger until she surfaced so she could hear my applause. I don’t know for sure, but that adult swim felt extra long that day, maybe even 20 min for my Mom’s swim star performance.

But then, “Wheeeeeeeeeee” of the whistle, the jump and kerplunk of the kids. All good things must come to an end. Adult Swim, and the live show, was over. What a triumphant walk back to our towels! Mom beamed at the young cheerleaders who lined up to admire and clap for her. Nodding to the other parents who were smiling at her. Like an effulgent olympic champion cruising through the town parade after winning the final gold medal; she could have performed the royal wave of appreciation.

My brothers and sister and I were in shock and awe with her that day. We kept gawking, “Dude, Mom, what the heck? Whoa! How come you don’t jump off the diving board all the time? How cool! That was awesome. Geez, I didn’t know you could do that!” 

“Neither did I.” she said, still beaming. Adding, “Ask me how I feel tomorrow and we’ll see,” with a smirk.

At the next 15 min break, others looked over to see if there would be an encore. But no, Mom was satisfied. She stayed on the grass the rest of the day, which turned into night for one of those rare treats when we ordered dinner at the pool and lingered for a “night swim.” Finally some of those sizzling snack-bar burgers would be for us! We ate them as the summer sun hung low and cool air swept in. We squeezed every second out of that day in August. The last family pool day of the year before school started the next week. As the tiger lillies folded their petals for the night, and the fireflies began to twinkle, we collected our towels and headed toward the car.

It thrills me to think back on the unexpected spontaneity of it all. I wonder what motivated my Mom to do it? Maybe it was just because she could. Maybe it was the same reason she journaled in the first place. It was her life and she wanted to make the most of a moment. Something that was just for Theresa Marie to do for herself. It was a beautiful summer day, one of the last of the season, and she wanted to put an exclamation point on it! It makes me smile because I know how many secret talents women hold in themselves everyday, usually without an occasion to display them. But when they do, watch out! Step aside and behold. What a memory it can make.

Mom always said, “Actions speak louder than words.” I have plenty of memories banked to prove she believed it. It wasn’t much later than this journal entry that she did get a part time job at a popular florist, Royer’s Garden. A great fit since she had a reputable green thumb in her own backyard. Later she did administrative work for a retired surgeon, and ran for Vestry at our church where she was a very active participant in the Episcopal Church Women’s Group. So why was she so self-doubting? From what I can deduce the only thing she suffered from was not a lack of capability, but a lack of confidence in the workplace. Or as we have more succinctly identified it in our postmodern world, ‘imposter syndrome.’ Why would they want me, who am I? She didn’t know then how common that feeling was for so many, no matter our experience or background.

When I think about achievements in my life, and what advice my mother might have given me along the way if she were alive, I think about two things, Mom’s mantra “Actions speak louder than words” and that time she performed jackknives off the high dive. Intention. Movement. Spontaneous fun.

In my own self-doubting times, perhaps she would have reminded me that in 2004 I was the first person to graduate college on her side of the family. I’m humbled to think about how special that was for my Mommom and Poppop. I’m grateful when I remember how much my Mom helped me navigate the laborious college admission process, without the help of the internet. I wonder if I even would have applied myself if not for her encouragement and guidance? Those college campus visits in 1999 were some of the best times I ever spent with her. I was becoming an adult, and she was becoming my friend.

Mom died of ovarian cancer when she was 43 years old. I was almost 21. A junior in the college she helped me get into. It was winter break when my parents told me this would probably be our last Christmas together.

“Then, maybe I’ll take this next semester off,” I suggested. I could be there for her. 

“I’ll think about it,” was her reply from her hospice bed. I felt my offer was too late. The time was coming. And so it was, in January of 2003 she passed overnight in the house I grew up in.

It was very disorienting to not have her support after graduation. Suddenly, I was a motherless daughter. It was like being a bird in mid-flight, unsure of my course, frozen by indecision. I tried to tread water and fell into autopilot; coasted toward a nonprofit arts marketing career. Thankfully, I embraced it because it gave me a sense of purpose in addition to a salary. Unfortunately, I never had an interest in mapping out a 10-year plan which would supposedly set me up for the rest of my life. In my experience, one could get cancer and die during any one of those years, so why would I limit my options by making commitments?

However, every time I’ve hibernated, or lay stagnant with insecure indecisiveness, it has eventually given way to this drive inside me. Call it a kernel, a little seed deep down, nestled in the sacrum, fused within the vertebrae. It lays dormant most years, protected by bone, connective tissue, and comfortable idleness. But when coaxed by creative quandaries, pushed by my supporters, or disturbed by our system’s failures, the drive grows like the 8ft corpse flower, Amorphophallus. The largest unbranched inflorescence in the plant kingdom, which blooms for only two or three days, every two to three years. Bursting through its testa the seed sprouts, germinates in my pelvic floor, roots down deep in my legs, stems up through my belly and lungs, leaves unfolding through my ear canals, and finally the bloom flowers in my brain. It invites pollination. I’ll get a motivation, a notion as they say, to do something prodigious.

This is exactly how I felt after I battled and survived breast cancer in 2021. I endured the pain and horror of that disease during COVID, conquered it, and swiftly moved on to the next challenge in my life. Propelling my career forward. It was one of those times I didn’t just coast on autopilot. I was proactive and went for the high dive! I had enjoyed a rewarding career at a nonprofit for years and I was ready to take a leap into the for-profit world of a prominent New York City agency. I had never represented myself better on my resume and cover letter, nor more authentically powerful in my interview than I had at that moment in time. Low and behold. I got the job! I had reached what could finally be the beginning of my 10 year plan. I didn’t care that I was late to that party. I was a part of it now. Age can be just a number. Heed the call of your next season. You can have it all! At least, that’s what they say.

Two years later, in a real peripeteia, I was procedurally uninvited to return to the agency after the new year. In other words, I was cut in a Q4 layoff. Turns out I was right. It doesn’t matter when you start a 10-year plan, you can get cancer and survive, and still find yourself thrown off course by unforeseen circumstances. So here I am; paused in mid flight again, with a lot of creative quandaries.

Although, perhaps my pause is really what they call a window closing. A chapter concluding so another can begin. The Stoics endeavor to see the challenge as the path forward. The obstacle is the way. Even though it’s only been a few years since last my last brain was in bloom, maybe it’s not too soon for another cycle. Writing these words feels like spreading topsoil on the seed. I can feel the seedling cracking and tearing through its shell. Whatever moved Mom to take that leap off the board and cut through air and water might be the same force that now pushes me into action.

We as humans want to live an authentic life, and we want to be the author of our own stories. I think Mom’s motivation behind the jackknife was similar to the motivation behind the Paleolithic cave paintings women did of their hand prints in El Castillo, Spain. It’s an opportunity to testify, “I was here. I took up space in this world.” Like the practice of writing. We do it because we want to feel seen. Because we can seek purpose. ’If you can, do.’ No one else will do IT for us. 

It is in this spirit I say YES to new experiences and adventures. I say Yes to making mistakes. I say Yes to fear and doubt. I welcome it. I will excavate and expose it. Make it serve me. With consistent discovery and discipline, I will mold uncertainty into a solid, yet springy foundation. One I can bob atop of before leaping into the unknown. Time to get off the beach towel, climb up the ladder, and dive off the high dive. Then, again.