Being A Lake
“Becoming a lake has put a lot of things in perspective for me.”
The only sounds on the lake this morning come from birds singing and pine needles falling on the tin roof. Purple martins are working the surface of the water, returning to their stacked house to feed the catch to their young. The sun is up; in the distance a woodpecker drills away on a hollow tree. The peaceable kingdom is alive and well.
I return here anytime I am invited because being in this place puts things in perspective for me. For just a day or two, I am reminded that in spite of all the furor and uproar, life goes on pretty much as it has always gone on—water flows, birds sing, the sun rises and warms. I can sit still and watch the ripples on the water, think peaceful thoughts and be restored to sanity.
A lake is not like a river—always rushing off to who-knows-where. It is not like an ocean—vast and heaving waves upon the shore. A lake is placid. It knows how to sit and be one with itself—it has nowhere to go, nothing weighty and important to do other than be a lake. A lake is patient with leaping fish, squawking and diving birds, and even with churning, noisy humans ripping through it's surface on their infernal jet skies. A lake will hold you, rock you like a baby, and sit with you as long as you want to be there.
Here is the lesson I remember when I come to the lake: Sometimes it's okay just to be.
In the Spirit,