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With a bag full of dry wood, strips of curled bark and crumpled paper, one book of poetry, one jar of sweet tea, a lighter and red wool blanket, I set out to spend a day by the edge of the water. I pushed through the crust of knee-high snow, listening to the welcome song the lake makes when it meets air and shore. I leaned myself against the smooth side of an old log, worn by sun and wind, and built a fire, took off my clothes, walked into the lake where I lowered my body into the nearly frozen water. Something fought and kicked in me and then grew very quiet. I knew the frigid water would call this part of me forward—the empty one— I had been missing her so much; She, the one before words, before thought, before, Sarah.
If we are not careful, we can box ourselves into a deafening room. Our lives can be madness and worry, a chronic focus on the voices and opinions. If we are not careful, we can lose our entire lives to the dizzying diorama of our single-minded life. Have you ever noticed one voice inside that stands out from them all, often urging you toward meaningful actions? It is the one voice, not easily drowned out by the others. It is the one that helped me pack and carry the wood and sweet tea. It was the one that said, "it is too loud in you, dear one. It is time to find rest." This voice is the thin thread put in our palms when we are born. We never let go. It is always with us.
Why would one overlook this voice, we wonder? Why does it often take grief, disease, despair for one to venture out and listen?
The frightened in us loves a boundary. What is small in us loves the comfort of a limiting wall around it. We do not listen, for this voice often leads us to the empty field some part of us is afraid of exploring. The part fighting me, as I went to free myself in the cold water, is the part keeping us away from exploring. It is the one -writing the endless tasks, looping us from one distraction to the next, laying the stones of our walls; this is the self-standing in our way.
After drying myself off, I sat on the shore, watching the ghost of fog lift from the tips of trees, and fill the bowls between mountain ridges and the enormity of existence gathered around me. I could feel it all breathing. I swear the bent arms of evergreens were waving and smiling back at me. I shook, not from cold, but because I was awake and felt like I had no shell. When the mind is single, it can recognize this loose-leaf and blown life howling around it—this wild stillness from which all is born and swallowed and something cowers as if to cover its eyes from the blinding light it casts.
