My mind has always run on overdrive and worked overtime. All my life, I had trouble falling asleep because my mind just doesn’t shut down. There are always a hundred thoughts bouncing around in it, waiting for their turn to take center stage.

Meanwhile, I’ve made a career out of juggling and multitasking many things at once. TOO many things at once. I don’ t recommend it as a life strategy.

It was only in recent years that I’ve really learned how to relax — a lesson that was forced on me by a health condition that requires a LOT of downtime. I’ve gotten fairly good at relaxing my body, but relaxing and clearing my mind is a totally different matter. I’m still trying to master the art of calming and quieting my mind.

One thing I’ve known for many years, though, is this:

Water calms me.

Looking at water makes me feel relaxed. Soothed. Happy. Carefree. Calm.

I could be engaged in spirited conversation while riding somewhere with friends, catch sight of a body of water up ahead, and instantly my full attention is drawn toward that water, seeing the sun make it sparkle or watching a pattern of whitecap waves emerge across the expanse.

I love to watch waves break on the beach, foam fly up from the rocks at the bottom of a waterfall, or a gentle breeze form ripples on the surface of a swimming pool.

When I go on vacation, I try to stay near a body of water. My growing-up family went to Ocean City, Maryland, each summer, and I can still remember the feeling of sitting in a small boat on the bay, moving gently up and down with the waves lapping at the side of the boat while waiting for tugs on the fishing line.

As an adult, my own family used to go to Williamsburg, Virginia, every year, where we stayed along the James River. While it’s not quite the same as staying on the beach of an ocean, the James River is nothing to sneeze at. There is no sound of pounding surf, but there are other soothing sounds: the screech of gulls, the slapping against the pier of waves caused by the wake of a jet ski or motor boat, or the splash of an osprey diving into the water to grab a fish for dinner. And always, the beauty of the water’s shimmering surface, my zen-in-an-instant view, there to greet me every time I look up.

While we try to combine history and entertainment with relaxation while on vacation, truthfully I would be happy just sitting on the balcony of that condo in Williamsburg the entire week — reading, knitting, doing crosswords, and surrounded by the constant sights and sounds of the water and its wildlife.

Speaking of wildlife, I have discovered some kindred “water is my calm” spirits within the animal kingdom.

Hosting the Mallards

About three years ago, I looked out the window one morning and was delighted to see two ducks swimming in my pool. I realize that most pool owners might not be as thrilled at such a discovery, but I love watching birds of all kinds and I was happy to share the backyard and the pool with them. They arrived right after the winter pool cover was removed, and before the water had totally cleared. I guess they were flying overhead and saw what appeared to be a private lake, and decided to check it out.

For the next few weeks, the mallards arrived almost every morning around 7:30, landed with a loud splash in the pool, swam around a bit, then hopped out and stood along the side, gazing out over the water. After about half an hour, they would take off, probably to the nearby lake.

I was a bit worried that the chlorine would harm them, but they didn’t seem to be bothered by it. I named them Millard and Mallory, and got a little burst of joy every time I heard that splash in the morning. After a few weeks, though, they stopped coming…. Until the next summer, when they (or their offspring, perhaps) showed up again, right after the pool was opened. The pattern was repeated: early morning swims for a few weeks, then gone.

In 2014, for the third year in a row, a mallard duo took up temporary morning residence in the exclusive backyard refuge of Casa Mezzanotte. This time, though, both ducks were male. They were occasionally joined by a female, but most of the time it was just the two males. Maybe they were father and son, and the female was the mother. Or maybe mallards are more progressive than other animal species. Either way, I got a kick out of this and I’m proud to say that my backyard is an equal opportunity, non-discriminatory mallard resort.

The neatest thing about my annual visitors? They seem to be transfixed by the water, too, just like me. They sit and look at the water surface for long periods of time. And I sit and watch them. And the water. And the reflections of the clouds, my (now-gone) black walnut tree, and the morning sun. I notice how the colors of all these things blend together in the ripples caused by a light breeze, forming a Monet-like scene that paints my soul with joy.

I wonder if the ducks are doing the same thing — getting lost in the colors, the smells, the serenity of the water. Or maybe they’re just zoning out and enjoying some quiet, calming time away from the flock. Like me.

Surveying the Swamp

In September 2013, I visited St. Augustine, Florida, for my 50th birthday. (I drank from the Fountain of Youth on my actual birthdate. The jury’s still out as to whether it will work, but it was a fun box to check.) While exploring the Ponce de Leon Foutain of Youth Archaelogical Park with my good friend and avid birdwatcher Stephanie, we wandered toward a swampy inlet at the far end of the park, which lies along the Atlantic coastline.

We caught a glimpse of a tall, shadowy figure standing on the walkway by the water. At first I thought it was a person, then wondered if it was a statue because it was standing so impossibly still. Stephanie knew right away that it was a great blue heron — it’s not that uncommon to happen across one in Florida. We stood and watched it and I got some photos by zooming in. I decided to get a little closer if I could, and so I slowly walked around a tree to the left of the heron, and then moved in its direction. Surprisingly, it didn’t budge, and I got some good shots.

Maybe herons in Florida’s parks are used to the presence of people, just as the squirrels and pigeons in New York City’s Central Park become used to it. Or maybe this heron was just so focused on keeping a solid peripheral watch out for fish that nothing else registered on its radar. In any case, if it was aware of my presence and proximity, which I assume it was, it didn’t seem bothered by it. The image the heron presented to me was one of confidence, awareness, and calmness. A visual memory of that moment will be with me always, and it often comes to mind during aggravating meetings or stressful situations at work. I don’t have access to mind-calming water at work, but I do feel a sense of calm when I picture that heron, and relive that quiet, uneventful, yet memorable moment.

Praying by the Pool (Insect-phobe alert!! Skip the photos!)

And then there was this guy, a praying mantis who seemed to be practicing his yoga poses on my pool deck. (Although, I guess it was likely a female, what with its advanced age and the whole eating-the-male-after-mating thing.) I watched it stretch and gaze, stretch and gaze, for about 20 minutes. This was in August, and I knew that it wouldn’t have much longer to live. I found myself wondering if insects could have thoughts, or be aware of the passage of time, or their own impending mortality. Was this one reflecting on its life over this large reflecting pool?

As I wondered this, the mantis began to turn its head slowly in my direction. You know, they’re kinda creepy and alien-looking, and I understand why a lot of people don’t like them. I love happening upon a mantis cocoon or a young mantis living in my gardens, and I have no qualms about handling them, up to a certain size. This one fell into the extra-large category, which I won’t pick up anymore after learning that they actually can bite humans; and, to be honest, ones that big can creep me out a little, too. But at that moment, as it literally looked me in the eyes from several yards away, I felt that I was on the same wavelength as this insect — as if it had sensed my wonderings about it, and turned to make eye contact to confirm that, yes, it was enjoying a quiet time of calm and reflection by the water.

Whether or not they have conscious thoughts like humans do, I bet that animals equate the water with a sense of peace, on some level. After all, they need water to survive, and they have to actually seek it out rather than simply turn a metal knob or push a refrigerator button. So I imagine that finding a water source invokes some kind of thoughts or emotions. Relief. Joy. Gratitude. Accomplishment. Maybe even…

Calmness.

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This month’s calendar caption is a haiku, even if it doesn’t look like one:

I contemplate life/while gazing over water./Animals do, too.