The Bath

It's 9 o'clock at night.  My husband has had what we call an "off" day in the summer scheme of the wheel of the year, and so he lies down in bed, sleeping- albeit fitfully.  He's troubled- I know this.  It's not his favorite month.  It would be rather challenging for anyone to find favor with a month where one witnessed a terrible tragedy.  Unfortunately, it's also my birth month.  Getting my needs met is something I tend to focus on during the other eleven months of the year.  This particular month, troubling him in any way doesn't seem to help either of us- and now that we are married, I am particularly eager to avoid crashing and burning our marriage, only two weeks new.

I creep away to the crawlspace of a bathroom in our one bedroom squeeze of comfort and quietly shut the door.  In the rollaway closet, I locate my old, dear friends.  Bubble bath.  Luxuriant shampoo.  Sugar scrubs.  Candles.  Tub pillow.  Books on Mother Moon.  It's not that I feel they have to hide- it's just that they are shy around the man I cuddle with- or maybe that's the other way around.  Either way, bath time has always been my time- time for me- to get away from the things that are cluttering my headspace.

Ghost lingers playfully in the front of the shelf of my stashed treats.  A shiny, silky smooth white bubble bath from LUSH reminiscent of spooks, it's my go-to-goo when I'm feeling invisible but don't want to trouble others with actually being present.  Out it comes.  Homemade sugar scrubs filled with agave nectar, honey, and thick pats of sugar hide in a small cardboard box nearby- failed art projects of mine that didn't make the cut to "professional enough to give to your friends"- look good enough, so I dig them out.  Soon my cozy bathtub has become a small spa...Ghost bubbles up with an iridescent glow and I watch the sugar crystals from my scrub bars begin to moisten as the heat in the room rises.  My shell bath pillow, secured snugly to the back tile wall, draws my eye around to a coconut hair scrub I haven't used in a while, and some apricot facial cream that I use to give my cheeks a treat.  Armed and dangerous, I plunge inward.

I wasn't much of a "bath kid" as a child.  When I was 6 or 7, I used to take baths with my brother, who was much younger.  By the time I hit 9 or 10, I received encouragement from my mother that baths were just "swimming around in your own filth"- I became a shower girl pretty quickly after that.  Somewhere in my early twenties, I rediscovered the bathtub as a sanctuary of sorts.  I think I can remember the precise day, in fact.  I was out at a function, directing high school students at a sporting event, in blistering cold weather.  I lived up north where it wasn't unusual to see temperatures dip below zero, or have sweat freeze to your brow.  Topping the record cold that evening came something between sleet and snow- ice pellets.  Four hours watching a game while God's zamboni dumped its ice turds on my head was enough.  I was raw, cold, and sore.  We were due for a nor'easter that evening, but no one seemed smart enough to cancel the game- and of course, it didn't matter anyway- this was no school night.  After bundling the last kid off home to his folks after the game, I climbed in my car and donned gloves just to touch my steering wheel.  The 20 minute commute from the field to my lonely 3rd floor apartment in the middle of nowhere suddenly seemed like a three hour tour.  My bones actually hurt from the cold, and my mind was reeling from the week I had at school.  I trudged up the stairs to my apartment, shaking off the damp ice that covered my hat, gloves, scarf, coat, sweater, and heavy boots.  I draped everything over the railing outside my door, closed it, and locked it tight.  This was the first night in a long while I had prepared my apartment to be above the temperature it was outdoors- I usually prefer the cold.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I decided I needed to do something nice for myself if I was going to go it alone on a Friday night with the possibility of being snowed in the next morning.  I drew a bath, filled it with bubbles, and lit half a dozen candles.  I let myself climb in and sink beneath the water.  I might have even cried.  It was a rough and tumble year for me and I had found myself in a nanook-of-the-north corner of the world, teaching to a town that didn't know how to listen, in a place where no one knew who I was...including me.  Bathtime became a fall and winter ritual those next two years- a retreat from the bitter cold reality I seemed to face on a daily basis.

Now, amidst the lilac-scented bubbles in my porcelain tub, I stir at the thought and smile at the peace those moments brought me...how easy it was to slip into the bath and forget everything else except yourself, warmth closing around you, feeling weightless, but safe...they say bathtime is like a return to the womb.  Maybe that's why my mother was repulsed by it.  I can't say I blame her- I don't particularly cherish the idea of once being encased in amniotic fluid and placental discharge- I don't care how sacred all the "real women" of the world think it is.

No, I'm here because of a completely different reason, I think to myself.  This is the place I go when I need to reclaim myself.  When I feel lost and yet know my place.  This is where I go to unthink.  This is where my anxiety drains itself, where my childhood forgets its traumas, where my adolescence is not so loud and mindfuckerish- where my dreams make sense and my feelings just are.  It's not because any of those things might be wrong or missing...it's because I need them all to be just that way, just right now. 

Oh, like you're making any sort of sense, Claudia.  Pull it together.  This is your second blog post- no one knows your crazy cult history, your sexual assault survival, your not-your-average-joe-life-experiences.  Right.  I forgot.  Next time.

It's getting hot in here.  Hot like a sauna.  I'm discovering that heat is, in fact, uncomfortable at prolonged lengths, and my skin begins to redden and my pores open with sweat.  I suddenly have a powerful urge to relax in a pile of popsicles.  Bathtime is over.  The drain sucks out the mess in my head and bones as I stand, more relaxed, and step onto the green towel beside the tub.  The bubbles from my bath, still teeming with life, settle against the edges of the tub, reminding me that their spirited presence was both necessary and affirming.  I dry myself off and rub my hands with aloe cream.  I'm not sure what I've learned here tonight, but I know what I've unlearned.

My husband still lies sleeping in his same position, huddled fetally against our smoke-colored cat...who in turn, huddles against him.  The air conditioning blows a pleasant breeze through the room.  He breathes more deeply now, and as I reach to touch his shoulder, I feel the muscles beneath my fingers relax.  He is peaceful and responds gently to my touch- just as he did the first day he touched me.  I smile in spite of myself as a single word comes to my mind- patience.  Patience is what makes all the difference.

That, and a nice bath.