We hoist ourselves out of the pool slowly, tired and relaxed after 45 minutes of hard work in the water--fifteen women, ranging from 20ish to 70ish, but mostly middle-aged, our bodies full, soft and powerful in their modest bathing suits. We strip our wet suits off without pride or much embarrassment, neither looking at each other nor ignoring each other: rounded bellies, pendant breasts, broad hips, big backsides, strong legs... We're long since judging others for being middle-aged and showing it, just as we're long past the stage (if we were ever in it) of wearing clothes to show off our bodies. Now we go for practical and comfortable. Talking softly to each other, we pull underwear over our damp flesh, struggle with hooks and elastic, climbe into loose-fitting pants and sweatshirts, plain or slightly decorative, and towel our no-nonsense hair, mostly short and greying.

These women I'm getting dressed with aren't strangers, most of them. I see them around town, in the supermarket, the bank, the bakery, the discount store. Their faces are unremarkable, some pretty, some plain, mostly showing a lot of wear, rarely made-up. And I barely notice what's underneath the faces, because it's rather rude to notice--especially since none of us fits the Naomi Campbell mould of Female Beauty, and we all know it. We all "know better than to care," but there's always a corner of the soul that can't forget what it was like to be 18 and flat-bellied, that looks in the mirror with a young girl's coldly critical eye --and then the spirit sags worse than the flesh does.

But now, as we dress, I get another sense of us. Maybe it's the pool itself that made a difference. I swear all clean water has some holiness to it (maybe even some not-so-clean water?) And this is water tended lovingly. The pool's owner, a beautiful big woman, has a spiritual vocation to keep this pool for people like us to use, and her love for it is palpable. No real love goes without effect--that goes without saying!--and this big room, full of airy lightness, reflects that care. The light bounces off the water, off the wood of the ceiling, off the plants, and in so doing, it picks up a quality of softness. It's a loving light that shows off our strong arms, rounded gleaming shoulders, high-arched graceful feet, slender ankles, quiet faces full of friendliness and laughter, eyes as young as girls' eyes but with grown wisdom. It sees us as beautiful, each in her own way.

And it seems to me that this is truly of God, this light, this moment. We are surrounded and supported by God's love in the hard work of our lives, as surely as, a few minutes before, we had been supported by warm water as we kicked and twisted hard in our exercises. We are surrounded and seen by God's insight, but this light is not cruel or unforgiving; it does not hold us up against some standard of perfection and proclaim us ugly by comparison. It sees us truly, but it also sees and exults over every speck of beauty we own.

We step out into the cool, sunny air, saying goodbye to each other, each off to whatever comes next, whatever chore or errand; and (from our expressions) each a littled touched and lightened by the moment, ready to carry it out into the day.