The world these days is not quiet.
For weeks I have not felt that I have anything to say that is helpful, or wise, or insightful. I hesitate to bring my own fatigue to the page. I have circular conversations in my head about all kinds of everything: Virtue Signaling, masks, conspiracy theories, the boogaloo, I get preachy. I get cynical. I get mad. I get worn out. I go quiet.
Earlier this month, to regroup, I went to stay at my mom's lake place in Northeastern Wisconsin. It's a small lake that is often glassy calm, and I spent hours and hours in the kayak. When I get around the point in the main lake into the nearest bay, the wind is quieter and the boat motors fade to a dull hum. This bay is special; the entire shoreline and forest behind is undeveloped. It's weedy, with a mucky, stinky bottom that deters motor boaters, jet skis, and water skiers.
I sit and float slowly around the perimeter. I could spend all day there looking into the water to see fish, counting turtles on logs (highest count on one turtle log was 48), laughing at the wide-eyed bullfrogs who think I can't see them if they don't move. There is an eagle's nest in the tallest pine close to shore, and over the years we've watched the resident pair raise young one year, lose young another. This year there is an eaglet, and though she has fledged the nest, she is still dependent on her parents for food, and she never stops squawking for it. I drift quietly, hoping that I'll see the otters at play, saying hello to deer who come down to the shore to eat lily pads and cool off. The smell of the water and the vegetation is so distinct and beautiful; I can only describe it as green--fresh, alive, muddy, vibrant, sharp, sweet. I know every nook of that bay, every variation in color and texture, every tree.
In one of my last visits to the bay before returning home, I sat in the kayak after dark and listened to the sounds of creatures being. At first, all I could hear was the raucous din of the bullfrogs along shore (they are loud and many); but as my kayak rested in the water, I started hearing sounds underneath the bullfrogs: The splash of a jumping fish. The scritch-scritch-scritch-kersplotch of a raccoon digging for, and finding, an unlucky snack along the shore. And layered over that, I heard a wolf in the distance, two barred owls calling to each other, a loon call from across the lake.
Now, I am back in the world, such as it is. I'm not any more insightful or virtuous than when I left. I don't know how we are going to get to the other side of this. It feels impossible to believe that my everyday world--our painful, chaotic everyday world--and that magical bay are on the same planet. But they are.
So, then, it is possible that the world we are fighting for can be real, too. That we can make our way through. I know that I need to sit and listen more intently, listen for what's underneath and layered on. Hear the cacophony and let it add up to something beautiful, fresh, alive, and vibrant.
As a side note, the bullfrogs in the world could contribute by shutting up once in a while, too.
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