OUR LAKE

Storm clouds today, after a glorious few days of sun and warm unseasonably warm weather for April. They gather over the Lake like a dark swarm of honey bees, buzzing lightly, emitting a low humming sound. The rain will start falling lightly, the inevitable "calm before the storm". They will swirl in little circles on top of the water, little pools of activity beginning to form.



I've witnessed storms over the big lake, his lake. His body of water is large enough to make waves, not the gentle swells of my body of water. His lake mimics the loud, crashing rhythm of the ocean, the literal ebb and flow of water against sand and rock. It can be frightening and soothing at the same time, if one is not used to the sounds. My Lake has tender, gentle swells, lightly feathering the sides of the shoreline with slim fingers. My lake is mostly still and quiet, a warm hug at the end of a busy day.


I sit at the window, transfixed as the raindrops pelt down upon the mirror below. There is no wind, no claps of thunder, no lightening I can see. There is only the gentle release of some frustration for being held in the same position, same holding pattern, for so many days. After a few minutes, it is quieter, so much so that I have to repeatedly look closer, straining my eyes to determine if it is still raining. The only indication is the swirls on top of the water, along with the dark skies and the constant, soothing buzzing. The sounds of nature and the birds soon will return to the landscape. His Lake has seagulls; mine has Orioles.


It is somehow a welcome reprieve. Even though I basked in the sun the previous week, there is something to be said about the mundane, the familiarity of routine and disciplined living. I try to do certain things the same way every morning; this was a glorious opportunity to look out the window and do nothing.


The storm has passed. It's a new day. Look up at the sun, past the clouds now beginning to break up.


Have a great day. It's your choice.



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