The time of the swans and the feeling of being alive

19. syysk.

The swans that took over my riverbank last autumn, leaving behind pure white feathers drifting in the current before their migration south, are back again. Their song echoes from the orange-glowing trees on the opposite shore and travels over the calm river surface right into my cabin. In the evenings, when I lie in bed, I hear their calls and the powerful flapping of their wings on the water's surface. My neighbor mentioned that he has become irritated by their loud calls and has stuffed all the cracks in his house so he can sleep at night.

The sounds of the swans don’t bother me. Their honking is the most beautiful melody of autumn. The echo of the cold air and the prelude to the approaching winter. I remember how, after the swans left at the end of October last year, the river felt desolate and empty. It was as if something was missing when its inhabitants traveled to warmer conditions.

I have taken it upon myself to start my autumn mornings by swimming in the now cold river water. I sneak through the wet grass in sandals, where my toes become numb before I even enter the water. I notice I have developed a greater ability to manage the sensations of the cold water, although still, just like last year, my heart pounds against my chest as if in a panic to get out. My breath catches almost forcibly. Yet, I stop in the midst of it all and breathe deeply dozens of times. I feel the cold water's biting current on my skin and just breathe. Nothing else is needed in that moment. A friend of mine beautifully described the feeling as a sense of life. When you’re not quite sure if your bodily functions will keep you among the living, you’re closer to life than ever.

The swans watch all of this from a safe distance, keeping their gray-feathered young ones away from the puffing and life-exuding being. It may be that one morning I’ll have to give up my routine to give the swans space and peace. I don’t want to disturb them, even though I immensely enjoy my daily sense of life. I can feel alive even after they leave, before the ice comes. The river belongs more to them than to me.