*When a lake turns over, a dynamic process occurs. The colder layer at the bottom, the hypolimnion, and the warm layer toward the top, the epilimnion, reverse position. The border is called the thermocline. Some lakes do this several times a year.
Always it is a shock, that holy cooling, beloved waters touching skin with its old knowing. Yes, we will all die, but love runs its fingers through a cold order to let us know we are alive.
Think of it. Sudden cold is both estrangement and sacred offering, for when it happens the lake is taking care of itself, is turning over in wind to become fresh again.
We will be shattered, old thoughts scattered as ice-colored beach glass on the sun-laden shore. We are invited to enter, to test the cold against will. Call it a forgiving.
We drop the towels, we stand still, muster our will, pretend to belong to the bravest souls on earth.
*
Think of this time of sudden cold, both estrangement and sacred offering. For when it happens, we are taking care of ourselves, turning over new wind, becoming fresh again.
We stand on the shore, trembling in a long wind. We know the water must shift, warm exchanged for cold. The lake must aerate.
We drop our facades, stand in innocence, muster our will. We are not the bravest souls on earth, but here, yes, an odd bravery.
The lake yearns. Now is the time to enter into its overturning, the overturning that enlivens water, giving itself new waters. Now the scent rises from changing layers of water.
*
We stand in the shoreline winds that have trembled these waters. Our bodies will give up their warmth, exchange it for cold so that love may aerate.
This is the time when the layers spiral slowly, when stratification blurs, when the fish follow the oxygen, and cool rises from depths.
Our bodies yearn. Now is the time to enter the overturning, the only overturning worth living, to give ourselves to the new waters, the scent rising from the changing layers of our own waters.
We hesitate, working up our courage. We consider the depth of our love, our relationship with the newly cold lake of being, how it changes us.
*
This is the time when our hands will spiral slowly apart, when our thoughts stratify, when our thoughts follow new oxygen and the cool rises from depths.
Now the lake offers unfamiliar water, the epilimnion rises, that colder layer surfaces, the once-warm, now-cool, necessary exploration.
Still we hesitate, lacking courage. Now is the time to consider the depth of our love, the relationship we hold with each other, how it changes our lake of being.
We take the first inelegant steps into the shallows, feet numbing with the fierce cold. How to fully enter this sharp understanding: this water could hurt us, too long in and it could kill us.
*
We offer each other unfamiliar water, our epilimnion rises, that colder layer reaches toward the surface, a once-warm, now-cool necessity.
Fish follow warmth down to the thermocline where the layers disrupt and resettle, where their oxygen depletes. Do they ever try to live below, in the hypolimnion, the place of coldest cold.
We take the first inelegant steps into the shallows, feet numbed, gasping with cold, and that first fierce understanding that this water could hurt us, too long in and it could even kill love.
At first, we hold each other’s hands, skin screaming with chilled tenderness, heartbeats escalating to meet the turned-over waters, warmth hidden below the surface, cooling.
*
Do we lovers ever consider following warmth down to the place where water disrupts and resettles, the hypolimnion, where oxygen depletes? Could we live in the place of coldest cold?
You and I stand in newly cold water, in water risen from the hypolimnion, that deepest water unwarmed for months, preparing for our new breath, preparing to inhale.
We no longer hold each other’s hands, skin silenced with chilled tenderness, heartbeats escalating to meet the turning over of shared waters, warmth hidden below the surface, cooling.
If we wade into our waists, we will scent the organic matter, decay rising from too deep, too cold layers of the heart, teaching us that unrest may yet turn into resurrection.
*
You and I dive into our newly cold love, in hearts risen from the hypolimnium, that deepest water unwarmed for months, holding our old breath, preparing to exhale.
In this layer, temperatures may starve the fish, blood cannot adjust, overturning life. The lake’s greatest loneliness, manifest.
If we dive into memory, we will scent the organic matter, decay rising from too deep, too cold layers of the heart, teaching us that unrest may yet turn into resurrection.
Like death, turning over these waters is done mostly alone. It requires the lake to dismantle itself to thrive. It does.
*
The temperature must sear the skin, blood must rush to adjust, overturning touch. This is our greatest loneliness, embodied.
Under the surface, silence becomes so cold it is hot, burning the stones, currents like flame that leave no mark.
Like death, the overturning is done mostly alone. It requires a dismantling of self to dive into cold. We do in order to thrive.
These once inflamed creatures cool as they swim inside the turnover: the cold that does not kill will heal.
*
Under the surface, we become a silent shock so cold it is hot, a burning as though touched by stones, currented in flame that leaves no mark.
The lake knows a kind of pain, such that it shifts the way it breathes, the way it will live until the next wind.
Our inflamed bodies swim inside the cooling turnover. The cold, will it kill or heal?
We burst from under the surface, unhinge the gasp, unleash the scream from inside the body.
*
We know a kind of pain that will shift the way we breathe, the way we live until the next wind.
How has the lake turned itself over, how has it turned us, invited us into love?
We burst from under the surface, unhinged from pain, unleashed from the body. That gasp.
Here is our union with water, with each other, a blue coalescence, currents rising, bodies feeling the unseen by overturning. Call it a forgiving.
*
In the end, the lake has turned over in love. We were invited to enter, to live.
Always shocking, that holy cooling, beloved waters touching us with its old knowing. Yes, we will all die, but love runs its fingers through a cold order to let us know we are alive.
Here is our union, cold coalescence, currents of feeling, bodies rising. Seeing. Call it a forgiving.
We will always be shattered. Our old selves scattered as ice-colored beach glass on the sun-laden shore. We are invited, always, to turn love over, to test the cold of Being.
Anne-Marie Oomen was recently awarded the Michigan Author Award (2024) for Lifetime Achievement. Her memoir As Long As I Know You: The Mom Book won AWP’s Sue William Silverman Nonfiction Award (University of Georgia Press), a Michigan Notable Book Award, and a Silver IPPY. The Long Fields: Essays of Comfort and Home (Cornerstone Press) is her most recent collection of new and selected essays. She edited Elemental: A Collection of Michigan Nonfiction, and co-authored The Lake Michigan Mermaid and The Lake Huron Mermaid (with Linda Nemec Foster). Earlier books include Pulling Down the Barn, House of Fields (Michigan Notable Books), American Map: Essays, Uncoded Woman (poetry), and Love, Sex and 4-H (Next Generation Indie Award for Memoir). She teaches poetry and life writing at Interlochen College of Creative Arts and libraries throughout the country. Visit her at www.anne-marieoomen.com