Independence Day

It’s the season we wait for up here … the end of spring, summer’s start. This year, summer began on June 20; last year, it was the 21st. Given this past, painful spring, we should be thankful the day arrived one day sooner.

Will summer be better? Hard to say. Politics and a nation’s destiny weigh heavy. But politics can’t be one’s only concern. There, madness awaits.

So now, at the first of each morning, I sit on the deck above the lake with my coffee and try to center myself. It doesn’t take much … a soft wind, a few leaves rustling above me, the nimble chickadee at the feeder, the dodging hummingbird’s thrum. If I’m lucky, a loon’s lonely call.

Then there’s the lake. Usually stark blue. But sometimes its surface is so still and flat that the opposite shoreline stretches across to ours, leaving a verdant mirror of thick, dark-green trees dotted with the occasional white – a moored boat, a secluded cottage. On other days, the lake’s surface ripples like Monet’s brushstrokes. Irregular yet muted, vague, the wrinkles caused by the wind’s whisper.

It’s rare we get big waves on this lake. That’s because it sits in a bowl carved by glaciers centuries ago. I like to imagine that God’s hand reached down and scooped out rock and sand and mud like an ice-cream jock scoops Cherries Moobilee at our local Moomers. The valley left behind is now encircled by high, forested hills. It’s hard for big winds to dip low enough to stir the water into ripples, let alone waves.

On such a hillside sits our house. What a treat, for which we’re continually grateful. It is, literally, a treehouse, because the pencil-straight red pines and burly, broader oaks surround us. Yet the views from the deck are spectacular. The trees don’t block our view; instead, they help frame the water, hills, and sky into pastel memories.

There’s a lesson here every morning, of course. Sure, that Nature outlasts all of us. That the seasons come and go, and we’re cognizant enough to witness them, and write about them. Maybe even alter them a bit. Though Nature always wins.

But Nature teaches us much more.

Today, I saw the mama duck and her eight ducklings float past our dock. The ducklings are much bigger now. Not yet mama’s size, but teens by human measure. You can sense her eagerness to send the youngsters along with her blessing. Before, when they were mere inches long, they’d tightly tag behind her, beak to tail, in a bobbing, straight line. She’d protect them with her life. Today, she seemed to encourage them to swim ahead of her. To really test the waters. The teens were awkward, unsure of her direction, bumping into each other, the line now gone.

They will sort it out. Young ducks always have.

Mama proved anew that there’s a reason why we grow up, start thinking for ourselves, decide not to just follow the leader.

So, summer is here. Late this week, we’ll observe Independence Day. Then eventually, after summer is gone, a second show of independence, Election Day. But those are all human creations, reflecting our need to make sense of time and history and destiny.

A morning on Chandler Lake teaches me, instead, the sweetness of humility. How to be quiet, to watch, to listen. To learn.