The Lake and the Lotus

One night this winter, the water on the pond froze, diamond hard and clear. There wasn't any snow so the ice was smooth, hardly a bump or ripple along the surface. "Its like heaven," a woman whose face I recognized told me as she slung her skates over her shoulder.

E and I went that afternoon and all the days after until the snow fell. It was like a dream come true; my dream, that is, to skate on the canals of Amsterdam in winter. We could skate forever, never hitting a board, surrounded by the beaver dams and winter bare trees.

In the muddy part of spring, I saw that woman again. We remembered each other now that our heads and faces were free from woolen hats and scarfs. Many years ago, we had worked at the same little nature camp in Southern New Hampshire. Every morning just as the sun was rising, she tapped on the side of my cabin. Four knocks would wake me. I'd drag myself out of a warm bed to meet her down at the lake still rising with fog. No way I could have gotten out of bed without her knocking at my door. Without saying a word, we jumped into the water then tied our bathing suits to the dock. Had to swim fast at first to get warm, then more slowly, languorously, through the dark and fog to the other side of the lake. Sharp tailed swallows dipped and twirled above our heads. The water was thick like syrup and filled, in parts, with long stemmed lilies that tickled when we passed. Some had lotus flowers balanced judiciously on floating leafs that released a sweet mossy fragrance.

Camp was still quiet when we returned back to our side of the lake and I felt holy for the whole rest of the day.