Yellowhammer Lake. That’s where I go for solitude. Listening to the silence between the waves of the breeze, rolling and subsiding in the currents of wind that brushes over and through the pines.
I lay across the granite and let the sun warm my face.
It hugs and blankets me, the cool of the rock collecting the excess. I slip into perfect tranquility.
My spot is near the inlet on a narrow upper strand of glacial-polished felsic paving where the slope rolls into the water, down, down to the clear, down to cerulean, down to the cobalt-blue then on to the black, unseen depths below.
A trout floats in the clear, just above the blue. He does not care that I am here.
Above, an eagle soars in the cotton-white-patched sky. He is watching for his dinner.
Chipmunks and squirrels scurry past, chirping their displeasure at my presence. Soon they will have their space, but now it is mine.
I go there when I need to rest, to stop all around me, to clear my mind – spring, summer, fall, winter. The sun is never too hot; the snow is never too deep.
I find peace there. It is my resting spot, my respite. When all around me is chaos, I go there, say a prayer, and praise my God that he has given me that place of consolation.
I go there often – though I haven’t seen the lake since 1972. It’s here in my mind. So, I go.
It’s mine.
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