Yesterday the ice was spread across the surface of the pond, two inches thick and full of debris. Bottles, mostly, and thick branches, tree trunks, bottle tops, loose change. We took the little white boat and edged in, breaking the ice sheet with a crowbar as we went. Some parts splintered and vast fields slid off into the water. Other parts were stubborn, the crowbar doing nothing more than prod a hole through the surface. We cracked and paddled and fished and wondered for an hour before heading back to shore.
Tumult after tumult, shock after shock. I've been through - am going through - a few calls to wake up over the last few months. Global tidal flows have conspired with local eddies to induce an ongoing sense of narcoleptic unreality. I maintain a serious of punctuated moments defined only by their sense that something has changed. And usually something bad.
Bad? No, that's not right. "Bad" isn't a very useful word. The nature of the world doesn't do "good" and "bad", only change. So it's this momentum which is striking me more than anything else. Where others see crisis and doom, I see flow and natural emanations. Backwards, if you see one way as forwards or progressive. Depressing, if you see one way as the only way to improve. If.
I try to think of what a crisis would look like from the perspective of a lake. At what point would panic set in, emergency measures get drawn up? When would the waters be placed into lockdown mode, sanctions drawn up against the algae? When would the lake's surface turn to despair and protest?
Today, the broken ice shards have all but dissipated, their ridiculous hold on the world melted down through their violently eroded solidarity. The water is dark again and moves like it should. Rogue reeds butt up against one shore, pushed in place by the breeze. The ducks have returned, back to their usual positions, circuits and routines, and I tell myself that this was all for them.
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