Three Strangers in a Hot Tub

with a Burning Question

It was one of those mornings when I say to myself: Not today, I’ll not go. Too cold. Who wants to go swimming in the 5 am dark, when it’s below 40 degrees, and especially when I’m tired, having been up late working, and really need the time for.....for what? For living my life? I don’t have time to live my life? Stop! My morning swim is a commitment. A commitment is a kind of command. And that’s the joy of it. So, I put myself in gear and get out the door.

I am instantly glad. Stars overhead, Castor and Pollox, my Gemini constellation, watching over me. And Mars, god of war, ready for anything. Before swimming, I typically warm up in the hot tub. I love immersing myself in the bubbles and watching the “sea smoke” pirouette in little clouds over the long, waiting pool. Bliss. The bubbles are bright, from the lights in the tub. The water is warm, comforting. I lean back to into the jets and let my mind drift, welcoming what comes to me. On this morning I‘m writing about, what came to me, as soften does, was a moment of insight. Very nice. And then, much as I did not want to think about it, or even less write about it, came crashing into my mind, the question that’s been lurking in the shadows much of the time these days. I will tell you about it, but first, the moment of insight.

The moment of insight

What we all know, but tend to forget, is that we see more clearly in stillness than when everything around or inside us is stirred up and bubbling away. I was reminded of that this morning when I dropped my earplugs in the bubbling hot tub. No way I could see them, find them, much less reach for them, as the water was deeper than my arm’s length. So, I had to get out of the tub, turn off the jets, get back in, and wait for the water to go quiet. When the water was clear as glass, I could see the bottom, beyond the reach of my hands, lit by the bright lights in the tub wall, and there they were. Sharply in focus through the still, clear water, two little silicon earplugs. With my toes, I brought each one up to the surface. There, enacted in front of me, was a truth so elementary Dr. Watson would hesitate to mention it: When the jets stop and the water settles, everything becomes crystal clear. Problem solved. If the jets are going, and the water is roiling, we see only bubbles. Which are lovely, mesmerizing, fun. But you can’t see what’s in the tub till the jets are turned off and the bubbles subside. Then, you can see patterns even on the pool wall. How like the mind, is that?

I was quietly marveling at this, as I turned the jets back on, imagining my writing desk, my office, kitchen, my life, all filled, all the time with the bubbles of busyness, deadlines, issues, problems, people, stuff––beautiful bubbles but bubbles all the same. My life is full of bubbles, but I need stillness to be able to see.

Enter the strangers

Back in the tub, as I was thinking about seeing, leaning back into the hot jets, relaxing my writer-tense shoulders, a young, blonde man with short-cropped hair in crisp white trunks stepped down into the tub, nodded good morning, and settled himself across from me, into the bubbles, and closed his eyes. After a while, a young, blonde woman, her long hair pulled back in a bun, stepped into the tub and settled against one of the jets between me and that of the young man. It’s a large jacuzzi, so we are each about six feet apart. It was pitch dark all around, except for the lights in the tup and the pool lights beyond. Still, I noticed, as she stepped down into the bubbles, and we smiled at each other and nodded good morning, that she had elaborate tattoos on her arms and legs. She did not greet the young man. Did they know each other? This young man and this young woman?

Bubbling away, my mind turned to current events and the “new world order” we seem to be faced with. What will it mean for these two young people, who either know or do not know each other, who are either not speaking deliberately, or not speaking simply because they don’t know each other, and are both lost in their own thoughts. If she was thinking about him at all, what was she thinking, I wondered, this clean, smooth, serious-looking young woman, about this clean, smooth, serious-looking young man, as we all bubbled away, together in the tub, but separate in our lives, in the pre-dawn dark

Was this lovely, silent woman one of those who rose up, shouting, against the male-dominated, oppressive, mean and nasty, fear-driven folk who for months spewed out lies and invectives, like ball machines at a tennis court, and who are soon to take over complete power? Is she afraid, I wondered, as people I know are, about losing the right to make her own decisions for her own body? Which is really the right to make decisions about her own identity and the trajectory of her own life–– because let’s face it: a pregnancy is not a one-off incident, but a whole life change. A turn of destiny. Is the young man thinking about any of that?

Certain thoughts unavoidably linger in the mind like a stain, “Daddy’s going to give her a spanking,” Or, the ominous, “I’m going to protect women, whether they like it or not!” What do we women do with the feelings these callouts cause, in our deepest regions, where survival fears work on our nervous systems? What do men do with the feelings these callouts invite?

I read in the news that some women now hate men. Are choosing to refuse sex, or to choose other sexual options. Anything but men. Anything but becoming just a breeder for those old––and young––men who scream about the babies, the babies, how we need the babies. Are they all, the furious, righteous male people, just screaming to defend their biological imperative, to increase their line, as ordered by Genesis. Are we, the female people, who wish to decide our own destiny, violating some law set down by biblical authority?

What does this young man think, I wondered, so close to all that screaming memory as we are, being in the hot tub with two ladies, one his age, and the other much older? Do thoughts like these cross his mind? Maybe––given the serenity on his face––not at all. Do these thoughts bother her, the woman leaning against the jets, eyes closed? From the fact of her tattoos, I venture to guess that she will defend her right to her life choices...if she can.

Is this the quintessential, age-old question?

In the end, who will suffer more from all this––this what? Power struggle? Does it all boil down to a power struggle? To some basic, time-worn, fear-driven lament: How to control the women? What will keep the women in check? Sheer, atavistic male force? Can we ever see through the bubbles of the mob-speak and learn to recognize each other as people and live civilly with each other?