A Vindication of Forgetting Yourself

A little thing about me.

I like to deep dive into my sauna routine (I thank the germans for the initiation). In the depths of low-lighted steam, to the cold pool. In my mind hours can be spent. Sensations after far surpass feelings during. Like most good things, it’s worth the discomfort.

As i lean a bit into archeological study of late, i do wonder what happened to the UK’s bathing culture? It esconced. What ever for? How were people conviced to abandon feeling better than they did stepping into a bath? It’s unbelievable. Now i seek out Turkish, russian, marroccan, greek hammams, it feels second nature in these spaces, and to the people that rum them, not clinical. As they know, wellness shoud be a regular habit.

My utopia: resplendent in the roman baths in Somerset, in my mind a societal necessity. Where else can you clear your mind in steamy, dimly-lit solace, with only the sounds of ceiling drips and people inhaling and exhaling around you? Forgetting all that you know. 

Forgetting oneself. It transforms.

It’s in such liminal spaces, almost nude, between taking my body through temperature extremes and my own slow, steady breath that my mind becomes clearest. Closed eyes, forgetting everything, myself, momentarily, peacefully. Intoxicating, comforting Aleppo laurel soap. 

It’s almost always a rather matronly woman doing your gommage (exfoliation), so brutal she’s absolving your sins from your pores. Her roughness leaves you silky as a baby. Renewed. 

Do you know what i mean?