Lake Lesson 8

On an unseasonably warm day this November, I packed up my van with my board and belongings and set out to visit a more northern shore of the Lake for a weekend. 

Instead of floating on the water, I spent the day sifting through small, smooth rocks on the beach and developed an unexpected camaraderie with a few other rock-collecting women. Folding up my fossils in my hoodie, I set out on the road and let the day take me where ever my intuition led me. 

I visited more shore line with the hopes of finding a place to camp out in my van but the season was over. Park gates were locked. I stood on the edge of a high cliff carpeted with soft yellow leaves and looked out on the vast gray body of the Lake. Despite my eagerness to sleep near the Lake and hear her waves lap inside my dreams and wake to a sparkling sunrise, I again was led north by my inner compass to a comfortable place I knew well. 

The School House. The one room school house my parents bought 52 years ago for a cottage. Once a room for many children to acquire knowledge, I still learn things even if they are not written on the green chalkboard. 

Just after I took this confident photograph, I literally stepped on an apple, twisted my ankle and fell full-body to the ground. I was fine and laughed, laying there because it was just another bit in my comedy of errors since I had arrived. 

My plan was to wake before the sun, to finally capture a glimpse of the deer that bedded down on the property. The sun rose and I had slept in, deer long gone. I didn’t bring my coffee maker. I invented a way to make a hot cup of joe, slogging wet grounds all over the counter and my hands. I discovered I had left all my van windows down over night. I made a morning campfire and almost caught the dry grass on fire. When I backed out as I was leaving, I hit a gas line sign and dented my fender. I bought a salad at the gas station and sat on the cold sand at another beach to eat it. A group of sea gulls gazed at me while I realized I hadn’t gotten any salad dressing. Silly mishaps happened on my getaway and in the scheme of things, were minor.

When I look at that photograph of myself, it is a reminder that I don’t necessarily gain confidence in doing something amazing or the ‘right’ way. I accumulate more confidence when I’ve handled a situation, solved a problem, let go and accepted, learned from a mistake, gotten over a hurdle, survived a mishap or something bigger. I am more confident when I’ve tried and failed, taken a risk. I am proud of the many things I’ve failed at, because I was doing what I could with the knowledge I had at that time. I was living and doing. 
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The other day I leaned up against a huge mother tree that stood before the Lake and took in all of her crookedness. I don’t judge her, just as I should not judge myself. We are both a part of nature, doing what comes naturally and we are both beautiful in our crookedness. This is a meaningful photo of my confident self, probably with my fly open, about to fall - but then dusting myself off and getting right back up again. 

Beauty is Everywhere


- Holly