reserved our camping/vacation "spot" for this upcoming year ...I've gotten to thinking about our past years there and how vastly important those dear days, those dear summers, those dear memories have been.....yes, because of our planning, I've been pondering. And also because of one of my replies to Monique's 11 fun questions
So I reflect on summer after summer after summer.....
 |
| 2006 |
 |
| 2006 |
The lake. Our lake.
The lake that captures western sun and turns glassy waters pink
like salmon as day draws dusky. That captures eastern sky with new day’s
brightness, flourishing crystal waters as an orange never-used crayon. That
dawns with possibility and newness. Each day, as if untouched.
The lake that sees summertime memory making. Whose permanence
is landscape to our memories. The backdrop for so little, yet so much: Horse shoe clinks. Badminton swishes. Dock
jumping. Fledging friendships begun over sand castle building. Catching first
fish. Rowing first boats. Grilling quiet dinners.
And yes, even the mosquito bites, the sunburns, the poison
ivy, the late afternoon, sans-nap toddler, tantrum-ing and rife with wriggling,
wet sandy bathing suit.
 |
| 2011 |
For memories, like life, we find, even here in this perfect
haven, are punctuated with the good, the bad. Those light, airy, happy and
those etched with tinges of sadness or regret. Because our yesterday and our
today are not all sunshine and unicorns.
The lake that mirrors staggering old growth pines from island
to shore. Alone. Unrippled. Undisturbed. Perfect. We dub it Tom Sawyer Island, our island in lake’s middle.
And even in the weeds, beauty. Rooted dozens of feet below
surface in muddy, silty lake bottom. Lily - pad clustered flowers. Delicate
mauves and lucent yellows. Pinks, pastel and radiant. Greens, lush and lime-y. Radiance
brimming as we approach and admire up close their inviting newness in screeching,
clunky rowboat. Nature’s decorations. These
petals curving skyward. Giving homage it seems, to their creator.
 |
| 2007 |
And the summer sounds, the-unnoticeable-elsewhere-yet-intensified-here
soundtrack of the lake. Canoe and paddler rhythmically slicing glassy waters. A
widening V disappearing, reappearing. Whose continuous beat, it seems, if set
to metronome, would not falter.
The insistent cicadas. Grabbing us, pressing into our
consciousness, forcing us to notice. Throbbing. Louder, thicker. Their near
hysteria, unremitting, garnishing our senses. An awakening to the ever presence
of God’s creatures. Even the insects we deem unappealing. These creatures, at
the lake, our lake.
 |
| 2008 |
And above, azure skies hold chunky, ragged-edged clouds of
pure white. Sailing, racing almost. Casting silhouettes of pine, of birch, of
long necked Canada
geese ashore.
Our lake is storybook. A storybook that is real. As real to
us as deadlines, as commitments, as taxes, as ever present life, as eventual
death. And so, we create intermission in
our lives, a schedule-less time out to touch this realness and live the lake’s
story summer after summer.
With those who matter most. Discovering what matters most.
 |
| 2009 |
Even on days not idyllic, not picture perfect. When storms
threaten and drizzle lingers. Days whose dawns hold sticky grey-ness and a
promise for dullness ahead. Whose afternoons hold a harsh word for which we
eventually ask forgiveness or offer forgiveness. On these days too, even on
these days, it is a place where eternity is glimpsed.
 |
| 2012 |
It is a place whose stories will be lived and relived in
many times and many places:
Southward on I -87 as we wind homeward the Saturday
bookending our week.
On a Tuesday evening two years from now after baseball
practice, over an uneventful spicy chili and crusty Italian bread dinner.
Over
our Thanksgiving feast a half dozen years from now, pumpkin pie and simmering
cider fragrances wafting throughout dining room.
Or Christmas Eve a decade from now, tree
adorned and Adirondack ornaments admired once
again, as my boys settle into home after an autumn away at college.
During
tuxedo fittings where one son is groom and one, best man, two decades in the
future.
And perhaps as their own children, the same ages my boys are now, trick
or treat together, flit around playgrounds together, perhaps even swim to our
island or cast fishing lines together.
 |
| 2010 |
Our lake is the closest place to Heaven that there is on
Earth.
How can you sponsor a child through Compassion International?
Wait til you see these adorable faces!
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