Before Your Coffee Was Made
The water sat undisturbed. Its residents slept, waiting to be woken by the simultaneous sunlight and small crafts destined to creep along the lake in due time. But for now all was silent. As the fin of my foam paddleboard split the hairs of the water it slipped between, the gentle sway of the evergreens reflected on the surface. Time was still.
A pair of loons bobbed their way next to me, curiously investigating the floating behemoth that paddled alongside them. I stood in the middle of the lake, floating with the swaying lake current. My clock read 6:05, and as I looked up I promised myself it would be the last glance or time check for the rest of the session.
The air hang humid, crisply balanced by the foggy cool breeze. Thoughts came and went as they pleased, meditation separated by 3 inches of foam board and a glassy lake. What would come later in the day became irrelevant, inevitable, irrational. Yet, what was rational was each stroke of my paddle along the water, the push that ensued, and the drift that resulted.
I placed my paddle in its usual routine morning position down the face of the board and lay down next to it. Minute by minute the clouds and fog began to clear up above me. Floating and bobbing with my eyes straight up felt like floating in the clouds. The sun began creeping into the sky, my signal to head back from my private fantasy world and back to reality, stroke by stroke.