There had been jollity and peace and goodness.—E.B. White, “Once More to the Lake”
The price of modernity is that our world has grown smaller but our differences more vast. Last I checked, the earth has not changed shape nor size, yet it has come to feel so crowded that there is barely room to breathe and that we are bumping into one another. Yet it is not our lungs but our hearts that can’t breathe, and it is not our bodies but our own thoughts that are bumping into one another inside our beleaguered brains.
In such a time, one could do worse than head to a lake. To wade in past the reeds or glide along on a kayak or canoe, to dog paddle out to a floating dock so you can jump off and dive in, is like entering a time machine. It is a balm to the eyes to see the surface of a lake—large, quiet, undisturbed save for the swells from passing motorboats. And even then, the lake recovers quickly.
So might you if you have come to the lake to escape. The grassy scent of cattails and sedges and the seaweedy smell of fish yank you back to simpler times. Jumping in and floating under, it can feel as if nothing can reach you or harm you just a foot below the surface. Within minutes of encountering a lake, it is hard to cling to the stress one has become addicted to. You are washed clean.
Time stands still at a lake, where peace is a memory and all the possibilities you once held in your heart come to the surface. That is no accident. A lake is a basin that was filled in long ago by the relentless flow of runoff and the seepage of groundwater quietly flowing in after glacial or volcanic activity. A triumph of patience over disruption, of calm over chaos. Head to the lake to remind yourself which of those wins the test of time. Float. Submerge. And then resurface.