Saturday, November 6, 2010

The Promise of This November Day

It is supposed to be nearly 80˚ in Denver today, so Duncan and I woke early and headed over to the lake for a quiet morning walk along the path that winds around it. I wish you could have been there. The sun was bright and warm, and seemed to be shining in two places at once, above us in the faded and metallic sky and from the reflection off the lake below. The air was still and the water was impossibly smooth, with only the lazy wakes of the gliding ducks to mottle its surface. By 8:30 it was already too warm for the jacket I was wearing, so I slipped it off and tied it around my waist. The sunflowers are still in bloom along the shoreline and bees still dance from one wide yellow stage to another. When I closed my eyes and followed the gentle tug of Roo guiding me on his leash I felt as though I was a kite, untethered and witness to the world spreading out all around, basking in the warmth of the morning, breathing in the rich scents of both Autumn and the summer that has steadfastly refused to depart. I smelled mint and greenery, thought I caught an echo of the Russian Olives and the Lindens, imagined I was still in Lake Forest, where the scent of the lake seems to be the only scent that matters. Blind but led by a dog and the light of the sun on my closed eyelids, all time seemed to come together and melt into a single, extraordinary moment that surpassed logic and sense.

Perhaps one day technology will be as magical as any given moment in this wakeful life and I'll be able to sit at my computer and write something that will transport you this lakeside, where you will be able to feel the pull of Duncan on his leash and hear his soft footfalls on the path and the long grass that rises up along its edge. You, too, can close your eyes and savor the brilliant gift of warm sun on your face on a November morning. The scent of the lake and the trees will wash over you and the lowing of the ducks on the shore will be like a whisper in your ear. And only then will you come close to knowing how wonderful this morning was with my good dog at my side and the promise of the day spread before us, as vast as a lifetime and as silent as prayer.

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