I write in the days when I try to learn to swim in the sea. I take swimming lessons to swim in open water. The previous learning, with which I was most committed, is the practice of yoga, which persists. I wrote a book, Quipu, based on the materiality of that practice: a knowledge about being present of the body, being in the body not inadvertently but in the fullness of attention, in the minuscule, in the millimeter, in the detail. The practice of yoga requires being alone there, learning to renounce ubiquity, dispersion. Or it is practiced only to conjure the scattered, the thoughts that are confused. To learn to be in a body, to be that body.
Swimming is another apprenticeship, it is swimming with the winds, the waves and the currents. Look at the sky, the water, feel the air. Building a lightness that implies letting go, not fighting, not giving up either. If yoga is introspection, serene reflection on oneself, an internalized doing/thinking; swimming in the sea implies thinking about the elements, recognizing the body among those elements that vary, demand, mutate their own movements.
What writing can be opened with that practice? A writing attentive to the wind, the waves, the currents. A writing that moves looking for compositions. In search of a serenity that is not introspection but that of navigating, letting go.