Water evokes a spiritual experience, a mirror reflecting our desires and fears.
I have a love-hate relationship with water as an element and an experience. The element of water is associated with emotion and the subconscious, and the experience of water I used to associate with discomfort. But are they any different?
Swimming lessons as a sensitive kid were a nightmare I learned to overcome through my Moms coaching. She taught me to float on my back, gently cradling the back of my head with her hands until I could slow my breathing and she could let go. For the final push, she promised, “I will give you all of my amethysts if you fall under.”
I remember thinking it seemed like a fair trade. The idea of water rushing up my nose for what young me considered a small fortune of the purple stones I admired.
Learning how to float on my back gave me the confidence I needed to learn to swim. I didn’t submerge and get any amethysts, but I did get my junior lifeguard certification at camp the next summer. I am probably an overconfident swimmer now, thinking I can float on my back for hours and swim for miles. It hasn’t been put to the test in years.
I grew up around the ocean and pools, but my greatest love has been the lake in New Hampshire, where my parents have brought us for ages.
Knowing the lake has changed me. A touchstone that never fails to remind me of who I’ve been and what emotions I’ve brought to it. So many memories reflected back to me on its calm surface.
Large enough to feel anonymous as I head away from the beach but small enough for me to be acquainted with each creature who lives there—generations of Loons, Eagles, and a family of Beavers to regulate the water level. It’s surrounded by mountains that block most of the noise from the nearest highways and invites you to imagine that uninhabited places still exist.
The lake has a large island in the center where I’ve taken my boys to pick blueberries since they were small. Getting lost in the tangled forest, feet in the sand, arms stretched high, picking until all our buckets and bellies were full.
It’s a comfort that the lake remembers that version of me, and I hope my kids will too. I hope they remember the sunscreen-covered, barefoot, blueberry-picking mother.
The lake whispers, “I know all versions of you.” It’s unsettling to reconcile the lonely teenager that lurks in her memory or the misguided young person hoping for a momentary escape from life — me when I was in survival mode.
Water is the ultimate conductor of energy. When I glide across the lake in my kayak, I am immediately confronted with questions:
“Who are you, really?”
Where are you going?”
What means the most to you?”
It’s vulnerable, knowing that there is nowhere to hide. All my past selves have crossed these waters, holding completely different realities. The energy of the past, present, and future are all understood and held by the soul, and the water amplifies this.
I went out with my son on our most recent kayak trip to peek at the beaver dam. We glided along in silence, me following him because, at eighteen, he is a lot faster now. I remember when he was smaller than the paddle he held. Keeping stride with me, wanting me to hold onto his kayak when speedboats passed and rocked us together.
We edge our way around to the narrow pass that leads to the beaver dam. We move over lily pads and reeds until the grass grows taller, forming a narrow channel. We both know not to speak as we trespass into a part of the lake so full of life. We take turns silently pointing to a butterfly or bird that catches our eye. Dragonflies land on us, signaling that we’ve become part of this environment.
No different from any other creatures dwelling here. I feel a sense of belonging, being welcomed. As though Mother Nature herself is saying, “Come and be here and rest. All your ghosts and memories, each part of you, is welcome.”
My son spots a Loon up ahead. He is a rare, endangered bird we know to keep our distance from, and he is glorious. Loons make a howling sound to call to one another, and we know that this one is far from his nest and likely in search of food. He seems unbothered by our presence, so we let the mild current carry us toward him. He ducks under the water and disappears for a long silent stretch of time. We sit, eyeing one another, wondering where he’s gone and where he will emerge.
We both know Loons can hold their breath underwater for five minutes, and this one seems to be pushing the limits. We instinctively turn our heads simultaneously to see he has reemerged right next to my son’s kayak. Paying no attention to us, he shifts to lift his body out of the water, opening his full wing span to reveal his black and white spotted belly. It’s like watching a miracle occur. Unsure why we have been blessed, but we accept.
The lake asks me more questions:
“Are you worthy of this?” '
“What have you done with all the blessings in your life so far?”
It is a silent sermon urging me to be a better person. I promise again and again to take this gift and pay it forward. Each moment given to us in nature is like a drop in the buck of the light we can spread throughout the rest of humanity.
The lake heals us, renewing us and showing us again that our purpose is to be in the still quiet of our souls. Here we are held, accepted, and loved.
We follow the loon back out of the channel and into the larger part of the lake. Silenting, ooohing, and aahing each time, he howls to his mate. The sound is like a wolf howling — stark and eerie, echoing on the lake.
A group of Loons is called an asylum because of their noise and their erratic behavior if ever in a group. A murder of crows, a pride of lions, an asylum of loons — and at this moment, we feel as though we’ve joined them, leaving life behind for a few precious moments.
Eventually, the call moves further away, and wordlessly, we head back to the shore. Speed boats pass us on our way. The spell has been broken, and we shake our heads at the disruption.
Such stark contrast between those who come here seeking healing with reverence and those who come here to take and disrupt in the process. The water holds it all. For better or worse being closer to water brings us all closer to ourselves.
With love,
Sheryl
P.S. My oldest son graduates high school this week, and I felt inspired to write about this recent experience with him. Thank you for being here and letting me share more freely.
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