I don’t know much right now, but I know I’m going to do everything in my power to get my paddle board on a lake Saturday. I need lake time, a long-overdue mental health prescription.
Paddling around Spring Lake is therapeutic. I visited numerous times in late winter, wishing for spring, for green leaves, for water instead of ice; dreaming of summer sunsets and silhouettes. For warmth and life and the lake smell I love. Now, finally, I think it’s time to dig out my board and spend some hours on the water.
This weekend’s visit will not find me marveling at bits of autumn death trapped in February ice. Instead, I’ll scan the water, the shore, the treetops in search of skittish turtles, curious deer, and majestic eagles.
I hope the lake doesn’t disappoint. I hope I find the peace that comes from a wandering mind, tired muscles, and nature. I need that peace. I’m determined to find myself some damn peace.
Cooper died on the fourth day of school. Now we are within four school days of finishing this other-worldly year. I’ve looked forward to summer and time to heal since I returned to school after Cooper’s death, and we’ve almost made it. Now, knowing I’ll be on summer vacation in a week, unsettling thoughts are messing with me.
Bare honesty: What if school has held me together and I use my free summer days to come undone? What if the worst hasn’t hit? What if the long, depressing days of remote learning are a preview of my summer? Summer, always a tantalizing idea, now taunts me.
I am exhausted in so many ways; I hope I have four days of school left in me, but I’m not 100% sure. For weeks, I’ve felt strapped with invisible weights and now my body and mind are both depleted. The pain of missing Cooper changes; it is at once jagged and heavy. Sometimes I can twist away from the sharp edges, but the weight is constant and I struggle. Bare honesty is not pretty.
So, I’m taking this burden to Spring Lake. I’ll paddle around and take lessons from nature. I’ll laugh at the noisy heron as it warns its pal of an interloper and I’ll whisper to the deer as we make eye contact. I’ll study how close I can get to the turtles before they splash into the water and I’ll track an otter as he crosses the lake. I’ll delight in ducklings learning to duck and in green life growing from a dead log. I’ll find my favorite overhanging tree, paddle my way under its branches, and just stop for a while. Think. Pray. Talk to Coop.
Maybe while I’m paddling, some of my burden will fall overboard, ballast tossed aside. I’ll paddle that lake alone or with friends and absorb all the peace of mind and peace of heart available to me. I don’t know much, but I know I need that peace.
Woods Writes 