The weight of the water before the first stroke.

There is a specific resistance in the lake this morning. Not the cold, but the density. It feels as though the molecules are holding onto one another more tightly than they did in August. Standing waist-deep, the boundary between the air and the skin is sharp, almost violent in its clarity.

To move forward is not to slice through, but to be accepted by. I wait for the breath to settle. Fundamental Mind might ask why I am here, or what the lake represents. But here, there is only the pressure against my ribs and the smell of wet silt.

The thinking has not started yet. There is only the sensation of becoming part of the weight.