Ice nests and breakfast in bed

On finding growth in unexpected spaces

A dip in my ice nest on a February morning, 1 °C [34 °F] in the water. The temperature has started to rise after the winter and is now, in early April, a lukewarm 4.5 °C [40 °F].

When I grew up we had breakfast in my parents' bed. While the rest of us were asleep my father set the breakfast tray, carried it upstairs and woke up my brother and me by softly stroking our newly slumbered cheeks. We grabbed our pillows and nestled our pajamased bums between Mum and Dad in their bed. Mum was still asleep on her end, but the rest of us grabbed one section each of the morning paper and wrapped them between us. The slowest to the paper pile got the sports or finance section. To the tune of the crackling clock radio, Dad passed us Mum's home baked bread with cheese and marmalade from his end of the bed and, when we had finished, a cup of hot chocolate and a glass of orange juice. The spectacle ended with him throwing our pillows back to us as we skipped off to get ready for school. Every day, until I moved out at 20. It was a a mutual understanding, a snugness of four, a silly, safe space that kept the world at bay for a while longer. My parents are now in their 80s and still have their breakfast in bed.

I didn't keep the ritual, either in my own apartment or when my boyfriend and I moved in together. But we maintained that safe space, in co-sleeping with our children (the trick is to turn one parent-child pair facing the foot end of the bed), in carrying our youngest in a sling. Safe, tucked and close. When she was ready to walk, she slithered out of the sling and down on her strong legs to explore the world from a sense of safety, of being in the world on her own terms.

The kids are grown now and the eldest has made a nest of his own on 29 square meters. Since the pandemic I have created an alternative safe space in my morning rituals. Regardless of where I am, what season or temperature it is, I bathe in the nearest body of water. I happen to live four minutes from one. Every day of the year my toes sizzle of excitement for that bath. With a spring in my step I go down to the dock. At the last turn Mother Lake spreads out before me in her morning tousledness, unapologetically raw and mischievous. Her winds gushing over my face, roaring, "This is who I am today. Deal with it!". And I do, no matter how high her waves, how heavy her rains or how thick her icy blanket.

Rain doesn’t stop me from bathing. I’ll get wet anyway.

With my clothes neatly stacked on the dock boards, I walk the few steps to the ladder. One step down, one breath, another step, another breath. Four steps under the surface I heave myself onto the buoy rod and hang, like a bird on a wire, or drape myself across the hole in the ice; either way immersed in the water from the neck down, socked toes softly peeking up at the morning mist. While my body may instinctively want to flee, my mind knows I am safe. Breathing slowly, I allow the cold to come. The lake is my partner, we are here together. Her breath heaving the surface, mine echoing hers, my body dancing to her waves. Come rain, wind or snow; below the surface I am safe in the hazard, sheltered in the storm. I take my morning bath in the mood of the lake, replying with the ripples from my presence in hers. I trust her to hold me, just as I trust my body to carry me through the world. This is my safe place, in all its wildness, my tender space in all its absurdity. A moment to recharge, reset, reboot and feel my strength. I keep coming home to the bath, home to meeting myself in the water, knowing it is a good day.

Thank you

Kerri ní Dochartaigh

for your musings of home.