Sunrise

Wednesday, 9 August 2006.

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Gray mist blanketed the lake and the surrounding coast as the sun peeked over the surrounding mountains. The soft rolling of the waves could be heard below, and everything was serene, save for the slightly jarring, recurrent splash of the water against the bow of a canoe.

The man in the canoe was contemplative. Early every morning, he got up and went out on the lake to greet the day. It was his way of recentering himself, of meditating on what the day would hold for him. The merchant ships wouldn’t be passing through for a little longer yet, so silence pervaded and he passively soaked up the scene. He opened his little pack, pulled out a pear, and munched on it while watching the mist curl about the glassy surface of the lake, catching the reflection of the cloudy sky.

The first time he went out, his wife was frantically worried about him, and scolded him quite thoroughly when he returned. She was fine with it now, as she knew where she could find him, and even went out on the lake with him sometimes. She never understood what he saw out there, but she knew it was important to him. He chuckled to himself: perhaps soulmates didn’t have to understand each other. He wondered about that.

There was a distant caw as a great eagle flew overhead. Maybe it was later than he thought—the serenity he enjoyed would soon be broken by the work that needed to be done that day. He dropped the core of his fruit into the lake (plop!), pulled up an oar, and turned the canoe as he started for home again.