Rhythm comes easily in the morning. As soon as my body slides between the warm sheets of water I know why I have struggled from my restless bed to come here. This is where I rest. This is the fixed point, the metronome in the shifting backdrop of my day.
August in moving under me like the wind blown water that butts my face. Next week my youngest child, one of two, now one, (her twin passed on almost two years ago) leaves for her freshman year in college. As of next week I will officially be … an empty nester.
I stream through the water as through nothing can stop me, as though it is effortless, this journey. I am weightless, suspended and supported by the sheer force of nature. By now I am in the deepest part of the pond. When I look around the shoreline has receded like the hairline on an aging face. Every time I raise my face to breathe the wind reminds me I play but a small part in this world. Below me the vague dark reaches of mud descend down as far as one hundred feet. Sometimes it feels that in those deepest parts of Walden I am being pulled, as if the water is dragging me downward, my legs succumbing to the power of Walden. It is only my lungs, expanded and full of air that keep me buoyant.
To my left, I come upon two kayakers, and for once I am pleased for the company. To my right a little further on, white arms rotating backwards. Another traveler on his journey. These distractions are good.
I shift my gaze toward my destination, the small cove where I circle the shore so I can look back at what I have achieved. It is there, that ahead of me I see shivers of light, like the struts of a ferris wheel, circling a crack where the sun peaks through the clouds in the overcast morning. And to my left, a smear of pastel blue with puffy white clouds pasted across it. The storms of the previous night have passed rolling back the curtain of grey to reveal what lies beyond.
Perhaps it is like that for me too, as my life shifts into its next phase. I guess as the journey continues, it will be revealed.