Where We SWWIM: Dispatches from the Editors

A rested field; an abundant crop

Welcome to our occasional blog! Where We SWWIM: Dispatches from the Editors is a day-in-the-life, look-behind-the-scenes communiqué/musing. We’re taking turns talking about where we’re traveling, what we’re reading, what’s inspiring us, and more. This month’s post is from Catherine Esposito Prescott, SWWIM’s Co-Founder and SWWIM Every Day’s Editor-in-Chief.

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Rest is something I’m not intrinsically gifted at. As I write this, I have no fewer than 20 tabs open, a tower of books to read, lists of shows and movies to watch… and that doesn’t include the cacophony of to-do lists in the back of my mind. For a consummate doer, rest can feel an anathema to existence. Additionally, rest for a consummate doer in the midst of unnatural, out-of-order grief can feel like a threat of nightmarish proportions. However, a few years ago, this was exactly what my body/mind/soul needed, and it came at just the right time.

The author and her son, Austen, before his brain cancer diagnosis and passing

The spring after my son Austen (f18) transitioned to spirit, I was dizzy with grief. Yes, I had read all the books, and I had almost finished writing one about losing Austen to brain cancer. I listened to podcasts, connected with evidential mediums, and dove into consciousness studies (which I had begun to deeply explore years before Austen’s diagnosis and passing… what I now I refer to as the Great Set-Up). In other words, I was a doing, healing machine–and every time I stopped learning, reading, connecting, or studying, waves of sadness knocked me under like the ocean I grew up swimming in on Long Island’s southern shore.

The ocean. The dark, indigo water that formed me was murky and rough. It battered me, knocked me down, and offered me thrill rides to shore. We didn’t call them rip currents then. There were no color-coded flags indicating the water’s behavior, only the siren call of lifeguard whistles followed by a chorus of shouting. We survived a day at the beach. It was not relaxing, but it was what passed for relaxation.

A perfect South Beach day, directly across the street from The Betsy Hotel

The ocean, still the same body of water, is different in Miami. It’s light and languid–unless a hurricane spins offshore. Its turquoise waters create an ombre from dark teal to light green, and it’s flat, almost waveless, during summer. The heat stills everything–from human bodies to bodies of water.

It was around this time of year when I stayed at The Betsy-South Beach, the home of SWWIM’s Writers-in-Residence program. It was 2024. By then, SWWIM had partnered with The Betsy for eight years, creating dozens of residencies for women and nonbinary poets.

The Betsy Hotel at dusk

Ironically, I had never experienced a residency myself–not at The Betsy, not anywhere. For many years, I was too busy to apply. True. Also, I was too busy to attend. Also true. But, quite suddenly, I had only one child living at home and more flexibility. Deborah Briggs (from The Betsy) and Caridad Moro-Gronlier conspired to give me a residency. Austen died in August. It was now May. I was a grief zombie, but I took them up on the offer. I knew it was a gift. It was so gracious of them. How could I say no? Even so, I was terrified. What would alone time look like? Would I turn into a grief puddle? Would I write?

Almost reluctantly, I went. And here’s what happened during my time in The Writers Room: I slept. I wrote. I cried. I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I cried. I went to the beach. I sat by the pool. I wrote. I ate popovers. I cried. I ate gelato. I cried. I walked some more. I felt cared for. All I needed to do was exist. As a writer. As a bereaved mother. As someone whose world had burned to the ground. The time alone asked nothing of me. I hadn’t had a day in my adult life when something wasn’t asked of me. As I feared, the feelings came. Without distractions, I faced each wave and let it wash over me. What happened next? I wrote more. And I slept more. And it was glorious.

The view from the rooftop at The Betsy Hotel

I relaxed, I healed, and my nervous system rewired itself. Most surprisingly, I felt my son-in-spirit with me, helping me move forward, and I experienced a moment of magic I hope to never forget. One night, a rock band happened to be performing in Lummus Park in front of the hotel. (In South Beach, you never know what might happen!) During the set, they played a song I had heard the night before Austen transitioned to spirit, which reminded me (and forever will) of him. And for their closing song, they played one that he and I both loved and had bonded over during a California road trip. Seemingly random, but not so random.

Life is hard, but there are moments of grace–and joy–in it. I was wary of taking a break, to stop moving and stop doing, but it was one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever been given and one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever allowed myself to receive. My time at The Betsy helped me get the rest I needed to reconnect with myself, my writing, and my son. I left with a reworked manuscript, a bunch of new poems, and a few new “sign” stories to share. Not only did I survive my residency, but like a good day at the beach, it turned me out cleansed, cleared, and brighter.

Sunrise on South Beach