Live from the Lake

I couldn't sleep. I was checking my phone, looking at pictures of my friends having fun in the city. They're at a show, lights blue and red, the balcony full, everyone jumping and dancing so hard the balcony shakes and it feels a little dangerous. Good danger. The kind that reminds you that something bad could happen but hasn't, not to you. The kind of danger I feel when I walk down to the lake at night in the dark, and I imagine being hit from behind by a big animal, one that will knock me down before I know it's coming, before I'm able to turn around and try to fight.

Light was reflected on the doorframe of my little summer house, really a shed, the place where my parents store plastic rafts and kayak paddles, my old Garfield life jacket faded from red to pink. It's been raining all day, so there shouldn't be light anywhere. On the way down the path from the house tonight I accidentally switched off the flashlight on my phone, and it was darkest dark, nothing but blackness and rain. 

I got up to see where the light was coming from, and I could see that things had changed. The storm was moving out, and there were little hints of stars. 

I could have snuggled back into my flannel sleeping bag. I almost did, but then I put my contacts back in and went outside, out to the rock between the walkways. Stars were all around me, and the first thing I wished was that I had a camera that could take pictures of stars. I wanted to document it, share it, like I want to share everything. 

I wanted to share how bright white the stars were, how the clouds wisped around the treeline and how the evergreens were black against the deep navy blue of the sky. How the stream gurgled, running hard from all that rain. And I could hear summer bugs chirping, even though it's almost Fall. And then the wind came through the trees, the sound gaining power as it came toward me like a subway train pulling into the station at City Hall.

And then the loons started calling, and that's one of my favorite sounds in the world. 

Why do I need to share it, to try to frame it into words or a picture? 

I don't know, but I think it's partly because I used to think you couldn't love this AND that, the sweep of tree branches and the singer on his back on stage. Your feet in a lake that's starting to cool off for Fall. Your hands on a cool metal balcony railing as you lean forward, as you and everyone else watch the band go beyond where you thought they could go, beyond the last best time. 

You can. You can love it all, and you have to. You're not missing out, I want to tell you. I want to tell everyone, because when the stars are all above and around me and at my feet, reflected in the lake, it feels so true. This is all we have and all we need. This is the time of our lives.