Reflection

The pond is frozen solid. The long winter dug her heels in and cursed us with unseasonably cold temperatures. It will take weeks for this ice to thaw. I gingerly sit on the outcropping that hangs over the best fishing spot. The drop is only four feet, but I approach it like it's the Grand Canyon. Old age makes one careful and a fall on ice can easily break a bone.

Locals call this Behr's Pond. The Behr family used to live in droves in this part of the county. Today, only a scattering of the Behr clan lives in these parts so it seems unfair that they should still hold claim to this pond.

I know this pond. In summer, coon's tail takes over this very spot. The floating habitat welcomes fish, but sours humans on swimming here. Further up the west side of the pond, patches of purple pickerelweed entice deer to venture up to the water's edge in their quest for food. Musk grass and cattails grow along the northeastern border, along with a patch of arrowhead. The deep green of the arrowhead leaves are the perfect backdrop for their white flowers that bloom most of the summer. Elm and oak trees frame the eastern side of the pond, intensifying autumn sunsets. Their red, yellow, and orange leaves dance like flames in the wind before the chilling promise of winter brings them down. Only three cabins sit near the water's edge and none of them are full time dwellings. An occasional diehard fisherman will show up to ice fish, but, usually, the pond is mine in the winter. It is this frozen, white-washed, winter landscape that draws me here today.

My dad would bring me here to fish. I didn't care much for fishing, but I never told him that. I loved watching the cleverness of nature and the changing seasons, so it was a decent trade off.

I scoot away from the precipice and roll over on my back. The sky is blanketed in white clouds, softer than the frozen pond, but made of the same stuff. My visits seldom elicit dialogue. I usually just flounder in fragmented thoughts and feelings, but, today, I try to speak out loud. My voice is jarring and sounds unnatural. I startle a squirrel that is skittering across the frozen landscape and quickly pull my words back in.

I am drawn to this stripped-down verson of the pond. There is definition to the spaces, but no embellishments. I can face my thoughts here. I can feel feelings without an audience or judgment or distraction. I cycle like the seasons and the stillness of this place allows for reflection. This little pond has seen me triumphant, felt my fear, and soaked up sadness that almost destroyed me. Today, I have nothing specific to bring her except a general feeling of malaise, a tiredness that I attribute to 'getting old.' I have traveled this road before and know that spring is just around the corner. No need for dramatic anguish. I am learning. I trade off my highs, for dilution of my lows.

I sometimes wonder if I am praying; not a pat little childhood prayer, but the gut-wrenching prayer of a lost soul. I never view myself as religious, but I wonder if this is close. I know the importance of this pond in my life. I feel connected here. I guess that is enough.

I remember my dad asking me, long ago, if I knew the difference between a lake and a pond. "A pond lets the sunshine go all the way to the bottom," I said. He tilted his head and gave me a little smile and a nod. I am certain this pond will thaw. Life will circle the pond once again and sunshine will fill it with life. Some things you can count on.

The coldness has worked its way through my layers of clothing. I breathe in the crisp air, hold it, and follow it with a long, complete exhale. It feels like giving birth...birth to a new day, a new season. I struggle to stand, but feel a bit lighter. I whisper 'thank you' under my breath. It is time to head home.