by Lucas Stevenson
I've always been mostly up in my head - I'm sure on some level you can relate to that. In my case, I like to think. A lot. Not just the everyday to-do lists and social stuff - I love to build and refine specific concepts over the long-term, and I love it so much that when I really get on a roll, everything else goes by the wayside.
Now of course, there are some very positive aspects to this; there's nothing like creating something in your imagination, testing it there, exploring new possibilities in the mental realm. I've played there since childhood, and I've parlayed that ability into some serious strengths as an adult.
But over the years, that focus has accrued some negatives. The distinct feeling of freedom and adventure that I felt from thinking gradually became oppressive as time wore on; I couldn't shut it off. My thoughts used to feel light and invigorating, fireflies winking in the open evening air of summer; now they felt crowded and toxic. My focus easily turned negative and cynical under pressure. There wasn't space for my mind to work properly anymore, and the fatigue was finally catching up with me in a big way - and now it was taking an emotional and physical toll as well. Maybe you can relate to that, too.
I'd come across descriptions of floating when I was eighteen, and even though I'd only read about it, it still left a strong impression on me. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something important about it. However, actually trying it never quite seemed to line up for me.
Floating had been off my radar for some time; in fact, I'd all but forgotten about pursuing the experience when my girlfriend brought home a brochure from Still Point Wellness. And just like that, all of those old feelings of intrigue and excitement came rushing back to the surface; I scheduled an appointment right away.
There are adventures that just beckon to you from corners you can't recall or define, luminescent snail trails from places you may have once been in dreams. This was one of those, and I felt it through my drive to the appointment, during the check-in, and as I sat in the cozy waiting area with a copy of "The Book Of Floating." There was something important about this, and even though there was a tingle of doubt in the mix - the fear that I may have built this up a bit too much over the years - that feeling of excitement remained.
My hostess showed me around the facility with an air of genuine enthusiasm, as though my first float was somehow hers as well. You know the words behind the words you hear when someone speaks - the ones that tell you what they truly mean? She really thought this was something special, I could tell.
She led me to the private anteroom of the float, an inviting open bathroom area where she proceeded to show me around. Counter-clockwise scan: bench, toilet, sink and mirror, shower...
Bam. The tank.
It was nested like a Russian doll in the left side of the room, a beautiful stainless-steel chamber within a chamber; it was an arrangement that somehow made it feel even more secure and private. She took her leave. I locked up, stripped down, showered off, opened the heavy door (ah, fine craftsmanship), stepped in, and closed the tank.
Your first time in, you of course know that you'll float: the ten inches of water you just stepped in has 1,100 pounds of Epsom salts dissolved therein, making your buoyancy a given. The water and air will be warm and enveloping - you can already tell. You know that despite the complete absence of sound and light, you'll be okay; good things will happen here. You know these things intellectually - and yet you can't really know them until you just lay back. Because you just viscerally feel you're going to sink, and instead, you find yourself supported.
There's an analogy for life everywhere you look for one.
For perhaps the first time since the dark, salty silence of the womb, I found myself in a place where strain was fundamentally not required. Again, you can't know how profound that really is until you experience it. Your most relaxed Saturday morning in your most comfortable bed swaddled in your heaviest down blankets still leaves you in the subtle clutches of gravity, the ubiquitous foe of full repose. That invisible downward presence still presses you into an unyielding something, and your body responds with the buzz of tension, slight, yet so chronic and pervasive that imagining life without it is nearly impossible.
Feeling life without said tension is another matter. Twenty minutes into my float, I didn't have a body anymore. Without a point of reference - somatic, auditory, visual - "I" could have been sized atomically or astronomically, moving ever outward or inward. Particle or wave. Quantum physics become physical reality.
I know, I know. Far out, bro. And it IS remarkable. But as a friendly bit of advice, please don't get hung up on the specific experience, because:
1) it doesn't happen all the time
2) chasing it will make certain it doesn't, and
3) getting preoccupied with an experience will make you lose sight of the most important and most relevant of benefits you'll experience in the tank
Time had apparently passed. I hear the gentle "tap, tap, tap" from somewhere in the cosmos (oh yes, the side of the tank!) that signifies my time is up; I respond in turn to confirm I got the message. I sit up. Bwaaaa...my body is HEAVY. I open the door at glacial speed, and close it hardly faster. Light...sound...temperature...weight...all have remained a reliable part of reality since I left them at the doorstep. I gather them up deliberately. I step into the shower, rinse away the remaining strata of salt (don't forget the ears!), and amble my monkey body over to the sink and mirror.
Man, I'm relaxed! Yeah, I knew that, but WOW - I can see it in my face: my skin is smooth and firm, my eyes shine, and I just have to laugh, for no reason. Continuing at pace, I slowly pull on my robe, exit the bathroom, and walk over to the couch. It sits me directly in front of the beautiful aquarium I'd seen on my way in and barely given a thought to. Now, however....
....it's filled with things that are alive. Iridescent fish, anemones, crustaceans each have charisma, personalities all their own. Their every movement, every color, every quirk of antennae or soft sloosh of fin is a source of wonder to me. I could only have given these things labels when I passed them earlier...now, I can't keep my eyes off of them. I could stay here all day, absorbing this sheer immediacy of experience.
I'd been prepared for a trippy time inside the tank. And I'd read all about the benefits that I'd later experience: deeper sleep, faster workout recovery, more fluid movement in my martial arts practice, etc. But there was something I simply hadn't expected, something I could never really have prepared for:
I felt like a child again.
What I'd wanted to get out of this wasn't something missing; it was something that had gotten buried under the stress of my compulsive overanalyzing, my overdeveloped capacity for knowing instead of appreciating and being. It was always there...I just had to find my stillpoint again. And floating was clearly a powerful and practically effortless way to get there.
Now, knowing there's a calm center to be found inside of me, I've gotten better and better at finding it even in the unlikely circumstances of traffic, work, and conversation. And of course, there are those magical minutes when I'm lying quietly somewhere, exploring thoughtscapes with the joy and dexterity I felt as a kid. For me, that's the real gift, and while those encrusting layers of adulthood still manage to stiffen around me from time to time, I now know that this too shall pass...not just in theory, but from direct experience.
About the author:
Lucas Stevenson is a massage therapist, writer, and researcher in the field of human potential, including nutrition, movement, spirituality, and overall personal development.
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