The Test of Faith

It has become clear that my love for bathing is being tested - just as all great passions in history have been tested before.  But I won't let these trials, though they come at me one after another, alter my enthusiasm for the soak.  My faith is pure!

The first hiccup happened a few days after Katie came over.  Having spent the night shivering near the space heater in minus 10 degree weather, I nearly twisted my ankle sprinting to the bath in the morning.  Once there, I had quite a shock.  The water was brown, sputtering and full of debris! I trailed the halls on each floor, explaining the emergency to every member of the work crew and receiving various answers that usually ended with "call the city?"  Finally someone took pity on me and we figured out the pipes had just frozen during the night, and the brown was rust that would ease up after the water ran for 15 minutes or so.  Oh joy.  After a thorough scrubbing, I tried my bath again.  But when I dipped a toe into the bubbling water, I almost cried.  It was lukewarm - icy even.  I ran to the boiler to confirm - it was the dreaded L06.

(L06 happens when the boiler thinks its overheating and shuts off the hot water.  I sometimes dream about L06, and have been known to mumble - "no, not L06" in my sleep.)

The next day's bath went much better - for me.  I can't say the same for Jack Blue though.  I ran him a lovely oatmeal bath after mine, but he came back with a puzzled expression on his face and dry hair.  Apparently his bath had been stolen! That's right - bath thieving has started.  Everyone, watch your back. Watch your bath?  Groan? ("People who make puns are like wanton boys that put coppers on the railroad tracks.  They amuse themselves and other children, but their little trick may upset a freight train of conversation for the sake of a battered witticism." - Oliver Wendell Holmes).

Moving on.  Dramatic as they were, these little tribulations are truly nothing - lover's spats that only deepen my feelings for the bath.  Last week, however, I received a real challenge.  The doctor says I need to stop taking baths for a while.  Its been a low time for me since I received that awful news.  Of course I have still slipped into a quick bath here and there since (I mean, lets be reasonable), but its been hard not to be able to bathe with all the frequency and abandon of yesteryear.  What is worse is that this week, of all weeks, is my last week with the beloved bathtub at the Inn, at least for a while.  On Tuesday I'm going West to see what living in the mountains is like.  And its true, no bathtub there yet - just a yurt in progress and some clear blue skies.  Not a lot of water up there either.  But don't worry, we have a plan.  A good plan.  This too shall pass, and, God as my witness, I will bathe again.

In the meantime, I'm using this as an opportunity to find that feeling of the bath outside of the tub.   Its there in the coriander lime water that my father masterfully prepares and leaves for me some mornings when I visit, in the quiet and sudden warmth of a snow fall when I'm taking a long walk through the golden chilly light by the creek, and of course, in the hour stolen yesterday, ensconsed in warm soft sheets reading my new book on chemical poisoning in America.  Chris said that the art of bathing could be about anything, and I'm beginning to think he is right.  Every day brings these special moments to bathe in, if only I am willing to sink deep and let them surround me like the hot waters of the soak.