I love water. It’s a joyous, auspicious part of my life.
As a child, water is play, and joy is the uneven, submerged sidewalk, and the jumping both feet first into the deep puddle. As an adult, I thrill of the cacophony of the downpour and the rolling, crackling, earth-shaking thunder, and I smile when I’m caught in unawares in rainfall.
Growing up, I had an endless supply of water to explore. There were lakes everywhere. Lakes in my friends’ backyard. Lakes with loons. Lakes with small, 6-foot sand islands. Lakes with sailboats. Lakes with marshes and reeds.
And then there was The Lake. The biggest lake. A lake larger than the seas of faraway lands. A lake so vast you cannot see its end. A lake so powerful you can surf its waves. A lake with its own stories of sunken treasure and shipwrecks. It’s my lake. And it’s so many people’s joy.
You can surf it, patrol on it, commute on it, sail on it, cruise on it, dive in it, swim in it, —and in the winter— you can even walk on it.
When I see my lake, I feel at home. It doesn’t matter from whose shore or what perspective I see it from, my lake makes me feel at home.
Lake Michigan, my lake; my home. The collection of all of the water, and joy and luck, of my life.
Hello, my friend. How I’ve missed you.