There is a dock at the water’s edge on our property. I go there, often multiple times a day.
As Ontario flirts with spring, I go to the dock for the pair of geese we’ve named Martha and Brian. I go to watch whole flocks of bird fly across the lake. Go to search out for the occasional pike swimming in the murky waters, so quickly have they returned after the ice melted. But so much as anything I go down to stand on the dock for the sky, for the sunset, for the play of peachy-pink light on the clouds at day’s end.
Like an addiction I go out to the dock when I feel grand. I go when I’m bored. I go when I feel bad, pandemic generalized bad, and also the worse bad of a recent loss that overwhelms, the kind when you have nowhere else to go, no one to turn to.
I go to the dock, to the sky, to the spiritual possibility these things provide to remind of our scope in the grand scheme.
That helps.
