Blub Blub Blub

I walked past the tippy-end of a lake a few days ago. The lake is located in a nearby state park, the tippy-end nestling beside (rather, to the side and just below) a non-park road and neighborhood. It is a man-made lake and so has that not-quite-legitimate feel to it, and appears ragged and torn, littered at the edges by too many people using the small patch of nature left to them by the developers, yet I was nonetheless glad to pass by and see still-bare trees lost in deep reflection of themselves.

It was a quick walk (on my lunch break at work) and I didn't have time to do more than pause before turning back, but I was reminded of how much I miss water. Moving water, like creeks and rivers, but also still ponds and lakes, their stillness reflecting back so nicely what surrounds them. I used to seek such environments out, but have become rather stuck of late in a barren suburbia.

It is a kind of narcissism, I suppose, to stare at reflections in water, as I used to do so intently. Not at my own reflection so much (it is hard to stand tall enough or lean out far enough over water to see yourself, especially if you are somewhat short) but the reflection of nature--of the natural world we live in. This is what we are, a reflection seems to say: deep and beautiful, full of secrets and meaning.

I have been pushing depth away for a while now. It is there, lurking, but I have been distracted by shallow surfaces, the way they shine and beguile. I have, however, begun to feel things tugging at me again. A good sign, I think, though one that signals struggles to come. Diving deep is hard work, plus there is the fear you might drown. And you might.