I dream of a lake, drifting. The stars overhead are mirrored perfectly on the glassy water. The prow moves smoothly through them, silent ripples spreading behind me, and all I can hear are crickets, the wind, the soft hoot of an owl.
It might be a perfect, eternal moment. I might, just then, be perfectly at peace, perfectly happy.
Still moments in the traffic of life. My church on a Sunday night, spread out below the screen, talking and laughing. Letting my feet melt into the sand, feeling the ocean rush around them, like I'm flying through the water holding my dad's hand. A candle-lit service on the top of a mountain, sincere testimonials ringing out below the fishhook. And the other mountain, my mountain, standing with my arms outstretched as the wind blew me into the sunset, across the ocean.
I live in a city, the second of two. Peace has fled, solemnity with it, quietude lost in the wail of sirens and the drunken laughter of a thousand students. I want to catch that girl on the lake, staring at the stars, and ask her how she does it. How she has found such contentment and calm. Was it because she knew less than I, had weathered fewer storms? Did she have a better grasp on the tenuousness of the present than I do? Was her God more present and obvious, His hand a more insistent touch in her life?
A thousand sounds have echoed in my ears, a thousand thoughts have passed through my mind, all of them as alike as anybody else's. But few have made me feel weak. Few have left me empty and washed out, as if I simply have no more to give. I draw now from that girl on the lake, whose tranquility was so complete. She knew that it would be alright. Her boat would sail to the right shore, the bed above would be warm and soft, the sun would rise again to greet her. Her God was watching, always listening.
And perhaps, with the passage of time and the dimming of memory, I will be there again, watching the stars and feeling at peace.
