On Not Making a Splash
One recent morning, I wrote in my diary that I wished I had a pool. A David Hockney endless-summer pool or a sleek little lap pool. I can’t really swim, but the idea of a cool turquoise oblong of shimmering water that I could climb into from my back door has a magical allure. Where I could practice trying to stay afloat while practicing my sad little doggy paddle unobserved. My scrubby yard has room for it, but as soon as I wrote the words, I immediately thought that I have so much—house, food, water, family, friends, BOOKS—that I shouldn’t push my luck. Build a pool, and you draw the attention of the gods. Best to keep a low profile where they’re concerned. Of course, there are plenty of environmental and financial reasons not to have a pool, not to mention the need for a fence, the constant upkeep, the construction mess. But my core reaction—don’t draw down the wrath of the gods—felt primitive and primal. I think a therapist might say I’m coming from a place of lack, that it’s poverty thinking--not only in terms of money but in the way I approach life. But that’s just how I was raised.
Don’t get above yourself, pinch a penny, ruin is just around the corner. It’s how my mother saw life, and she had plenty of reason to.
Growing up in the Great Depression as one of six sisters with a father who barely scratched out a living as a tenant farmer taught them to be on the lookout for trouble and woe. And sure enough, life has taught me a thing or two about death, loss, and having the power turned off for nonpayment. Two generations on, I’m materially better off than they were, but that hardscrabble outlook persists in subtle ways. “I don’t deserve this. Who do I think I am? What if there’s a drought/hurricane/plague of locusts? Pride goeth before a fall, Nikki!” Even though I grew up in the Methodist church, I adhere more to the Greek tragedy view of life with their tricky gods always on the lookout for someone who needs to be brought low or taught a lesson. And behind it all, I hear the Greek chorus of my aunts on the sidelines chanting in their nasal hymn-singing style: “You got too big for your britches, you thought you were better than anyone else, you wanted a POOL.” The hubris of it! I know that believing in a benevolent universe is a healthier approach to life, but I can’t help always looking over my shoulder for the repo man. I try to ameliorate this gloomy world view by periodically taking inventory of the wonders of my world: banana bread, poetry, Paperwhite Kindles, honeysuckle, a pink full moon, Anderson Cooper’s giggle, spicy tuna roll, heated car seats, woodpeckers, free returns, Zyrtec, red wine, Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew and Karen Carpenter’s sad sublime voice, macaroni & cheese, and magnolia blossoms the size of dinner plates. As in Cavafy’s poem, Ithaka has already given me a marvelous journey! See Gods, I’m counting my lucks, Oprah style. And while I might fantasize about spending a summer afternoon skinny dipping in my own private swimming hole, splashing out on that luxury is just not in my gene pool yet. But I have hopes of someday trusting the universe to hold me up until I learn to let go and float and maybe even jump in the deep end. And when that happens…Pool Party!
Nikki Hardin is a writer of stories, musings, and memories. Her poetry has been published in Riverteeth Journal. She was the founder and publisher of skirt!, a monthly women’s magazine in Charleston, South Carolina. You can reach her at nikki@thedailynikki.com.