The Water Remembers

I find myself in a Swedish lake. One might think that stepping into the water means leaving the world behind. But today, I believe that this is the moment when you step closer to yourself. This is what happened to me on a quiet summer day, standing on the shore of a lake deep within a Swedish forest.

The water was cold—but not unforgiving. It didn't sting like the spring lakes back home or the sudden drop of the Adriatic Sea. No. This water seemed to understand I was a guest. It studied me gently, as if asking, "Are you brave enough to slow down? To truly pay attention?"

A lesson in silence. At first, my body resisted. My breath became shallow, my muscles tensed—instinctively. But then… as the water completely surrounded me, something inside of me let go. It didn't just cool my skin—it quieted my mind as well. The noise—the "shoulds," the plans, the "I'm enough" slowly dissolved.

And there I was. Just me. The water. And the silence.

I never thought water could have a taste—but it did. It wasn't just temperature. It was a memory. As if every bird that flew above it, every tree that leaned over it, every child's laughter who swam in it, still softly lingered just beneath the surface. And for a moment, I too belonged there.

Most water rushes, flows, or swallows. This one didn't. This water held me. It didn't pull me away—it pulled me home. Back to some quiet, honest part of myself. When I stepped out, the air felt a bit sharp—but something inside of me had calmed. Something opened up. And somehow, I felt more than I did when I arrived.

Perhaps that's why I came here—not just for the lakes, but for the silence that only nature can teach. And somewhere, in a Swedish lake, I realized: home isn't always a house. Sometimes, it waits for me beneath the cold, clear surface of the water.