I love jumping off the boat into the middle of the lake, far from the shore, and floating freely. I love it out there because of the peaceful solitude. I love it out there because I can’t touch the yucky mucky bottom. Out there, the gross lake grass doesn’t brush up against my legs. Eww.

So, you can imagine my chagrin last Saturday, when I found myself waist-deep in water, knee-deep in lake grass, and ankle-deep in muck, because I had somehow been ‘volunteered’ to lifeguard a bunch of (not my) children.

I was standing there, eight feet from the shore, trying furiously to break free from the suction that was pulling my feet down, down, down, as a tiny twinge of dread began to rise up-up-up inside of me. My Crocs dug in deeper and deeper with each movement, as my mind flooded with childhood memories of cartoon characters sinking in quicksand.  

I was desperately holding on to one small and spirited child, by the back-strap of his life jacket, as he tried to wiggle away from me, while attempting to chase after another slightly larger and much more spirited child, who hadn’t donned a life jacket, didn’t know how to swim, and had ‘accidentally’ floated away on a large unicorn-shaped novelty tube. 

I was whipping my head back and forth, while alternately yelling ‘You come back!’ and ‘You stay right here!’, as the other adults on shore continued mixing and mingling amongst their unbothered selves.  

I was calling for their assistance, “I could use a little help here!’, when the suction finally broke and my foot came free, sans shoe. I waited for a second or two, that seemed like twenty or thirty, for the shoe to rise to the surface, but it didn’t. I continued yelling as I trudged toward the floater, with the wiggler in my arms. I tried to ignore the feeling of reeds against my legs, muck between my toes. Each step was weedier, rockier, mushier than the last.

After a long trudge over rocks and roots, I was able to reach out and grab onto the unicorn rider. I told the little wiggler to hold onto the tube as we made our way back to the dock.

Once we were finally there, with safety in sight, they both began screaming bloody murder. There were two gigantic spiders on the ladder! The boys’ screams caught the attention of everyone on shore. They all stood and watched for a moment, then made very slow attempts to head to the dock, I brushed the spiders away with my hands, walked around to the front of the dock, and began lifting the boys up out of the water, one at a time, with superhuman strength. Thanks to the scientific laws of buoyancy. 

As I was lifting the big kid, the little one, already on the dock, bent his knees, looked me square in the eyes, smirked devilishly, and jumped right back into the water. He coughed a few times as he rose up to the surface, and started swimming quickly towards the middle of the cove.

I looked at everyone standing near the dock, and broke out into laughter, which became a maniacal cackle, as I threw up my hands and turned to retrieve the spirited swimmer. Howling my way through the weeds, ha ha ha!

‘Let’s take a break’, I said as I deposited him on the shore. ‘No more water right now,’ as I collapsed onto the lawn. 

A little while later, when everything had calmed down and I had caught my breath, I realized that I had just spent a significant amount time standing in the muck, wading through the weeds, and brushing away giant spiders. I despise all of those things! I would never do that on my own. But I did it so the kids would have fun. I forgot all about my own fears and aversions because I didn’t want them to be afraid or grossed out. I suspended my own distaste and anxiety, because it was an act of service.

I remembered a conversation that I had just last week at a diner with a dear friend/colleague/mentor. Our conversation began weaving through the weeds, as catching-up-diner-conversations usually do. We talked about our travels, our kids, our aging selves. We talked about yogic philosophy, local politics and world events, her personal relationship with Judaism, and my work at Jewish Family Services- which she referred to as a mitzvah. My understanding of a mitzvah, as a non-religious non-Jewish person, is an altruistic act of service motivated strictly by kindness and compassion. I reluctantly took the compliment.

When we moved on to the topic of writing, we touched on my being blocked. Stuck on a specific project in a sort of creative/philosophical muck. She said that if I couldn’t get motivated to become unstuck for my own sake, perhaps I should think about how my moving forward might be of service to someone else.

“Just make it a mitzvah,’ she said. And as the words left her mouth, I bet she could actually see the lightbulb shining over my head.

‘Huh’ I said ‘so simple. Just make it a mitzvah. I’m really going to spend time considering that.’ 

Later, on my ride home I did begin considering the idea of making things mitzvahs. How perfect for a service-oriented person (read:enabler) like myself. If I’m stuck in the weeds and can’t get out of my own way, just make it a mitzvah. If something is scary or uncomfortable, but could also be an act of service, or kindness, or love for someone else, just make it a mitzvah. How very simple.

As I was passively considering the mitzvah angle, and hoping to internalize it somehow, the universe decided – as it often does when I’m actively seeking- to present me with a perfect living metaphor.

When you’re walking through the weeds, it’s easy to get stuck in the muck. Fighting it, much like moving in quicksand, will only make it worse.

I think I’ve been fighting it. But now, I know for sure, that it is within my power to turn muck into mitzvah.