Lake Thoughts

Bottom L to R: tall coffee, chameleon cup I painted, fuel for dancing.

(I wrote this at the lake.)

Writing at the lake and I forgot my coffee but it’s okay because I saw a cat on the way here. What the heck. It’s a beautiful weekend. The sun is smiling and people are warming up as they pass around the lake, which is a still mirror of the pale blue sky. I’m listening to Pink Floyd and trying to think about nothing. Just feeling.

(I actually did sit with that for a bit and it was interesting because the song had lyrics but I stopped processing them and just listened and watched the trees without doing any critical thinking.)

My mom says that from a young age I seemed to know when to speak and when to listen. I would spend a lot of time just listening, observing, and thinking. At some point my non-verbal approach was misconstrued as shyness, and I think I was shy to an extent, or maybe just cautious, but when you’re told that you’re shy often enough you start to internalize it, and the caution turns into fear.

In middle school, my quiet disposition became a mask over fears of being judged and the internal monologue that analyzed every action and every aspect of my appearance. Over time I became more of an observer of myself and lost confidence in my decisions.

At 22 I’ve finally realized how unimportant I am to the world! Not to say that my actions don’t still have consequences or that no one cares about me, but the things I have thought mattered, things I may have failed at and things I never had, are infinitely insignificant.

Now as a I watch strangers parading around the lake I see them for everything I’ll never know about who they are. I smile at children blissfully unaware of the paths they are obstructing. When I talk to my mom we understand each other better. When the neighbor’s cat crosses the sidewalk without a glance in my direction, I’m not offended. Instead, I see myself as a little girl, quietly confident, not seeking assurances from others, because beautiful things don’t ask for attention.

I am reading Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer.

Here’s a riddle:

I tell stories

and paint pictures all over the earth,

I’m cold to the touch but you cannot catch me,

I hide from the sun, but you cannot see me in the dark

even though I am everywhere!

What am I?