Earlier this week, I told Rufus I was starting to get a bit restless, so we planned a trip to the family house in Algoma for Thanksgiving. Since we aren’t gathering for the holidays, we thought we might as well pack up our feast and eat it at the lake. The meal was savory and deeply satiating in a way that highlighted the love affair between freshly cut sage and my senses. Nevertheless, the turbulence upon the waters across the street reflected the waves of my own uneasiness under the surface. I sought out a catalyst for the circling mental tempest; holidays without gatherings, the approaching months of winter, long term isolation, an unwritten book, a marked decrease of exposure to sunlight, a to-do list stretching toward the horizon. It can be a far reaching endeavor to ask ourselves why we feel the way we do. An hour of reflection can save us a lifetime of trouble. Will a few days at the lake settle the invisible imbalance of barometric pressure, or do I need to dive deeper, to the bottom, to the shipwreck, to the gold?




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