Beauty within Blemish

As I step out of the car, I am met with a chilly breath of morning. Slowly, I raise my arms and stretch, attempting to wake up my muscles. Light has begun to show its face on the tops of the far mountains. The ripples of the water reach my ear. The sound of a duck calls out as if it might be talking in its sleep. Quietly, I pull out the equipment for the kayak. My hands fumble when setting everything up; some of it might simply be that my mind is already on the water. Before long, the kayak is ready, and I pull it to the water's edge. Silently, the kayak slips into the water, and I step into the lake, the cold mountain water numbing my feet instantly. I wade out a few feet and then gingerly sit on the kayak seat. In a few deft motions, I glide out into the lake. I sit in the water, the current rocking the kayak slowly back and forth as if attempting to put a small child to sleep. For a moment, the silence wraps its arms around me like a weighted blanket. As my hand touches the cold, watery surface, the sound of ducks swimming and bobbing nearby announce that morning has come. I look to the far mountains, and light streaks across the sky from those peaks, like leftovers from passing planes.

My mind opens and closes the doors of moments and events—things that were seen and experienced. Silently, I ask questions, understanding that they will never be answered. 

Images flash before my mind's eye: images of love, kindness, hope, anger, hatred, and violence. A ringing in my ears, a phantom sound that neither the emerging sun nor the breeze or cool mist can even hear. Shouts of justification for inflicting pain on fellow beings through violence, legislation, or as simple as not being willing to 'agree to disagree.'

For one person, self-preservation validates the allowance for the loss of lives. In contrast, for others, it accentuates the disparity of what has been seen, felt, and experienced for decades and/ or centuries.  

Bending over the bed of a loved one, not knowing if there are merely days or hours remaining, reaching your arms around and embracing someone you have not seen for days, months, and years, giving them a hug in a world of isolation, taking a moment to simply listen to another who has felt as though their voice has been lost—the moments go on and on.  

And here I am, seated as if glued to the water as the years have passed. The sun has moved across the face of the sky; the cold mist has been burnt away by the piercing heat of the sun. There is a stark realization that the effectiveness that had once been held is now gone. The cost is tattooed on the eyes and mind. The sacrifice is seen in the now-formed creases that line the face. The heart is not the same. The question is regurgitated. 'Is there something that I can do? Is there a way to alleviate some of the pain that others face?'

My gaze focuses on the stones lining the lake's bed bottom. The water is crystal clear, as if it has just come off the glacier. My hand reaches into the ice-cold water, the rocks touching my fingertips. My fingers tangle a stone completely and slowly bring it to the surface. I sit and gaze at the color permanently seared onto its appearance. The smoothened lines and grooves seem to give it such character. The one thing I marvel at the most is simply how smooth the stone is. Repetitively, I turn the rock in my hand, searching for a jagged edge, looking for the character flaw that will cut like a knife, and yet, I simply am met with perfection—years of molding and refining. It is obvious that larger pieces were broken off, but the water of time has made it smooth, allowing the blemish to bring out the beauty.

“Each reflection on the water’s surface is a story, a memory, a dream caught in the dance of light and liquid.”