There are many things that I believe I can claim to be true.
One of them is that the ability to stare at nearly any body of water can, for
the most part, cure what ails a person. I have pulled myself up at the shore of
these curing waters over the last two days. Visiting a friend’s cabin, I have
spent much of my time either sitting on the dock or on the overstuffed couch
inside the cabin staring through the window at the glassiness of Little Boy
Lake.  The first few minutes of staring
is often just spent taking in the lay of the lake…..cabins to the right, YMCA
camp to the left, sailboats anchored like birthday candles on the surface of
the water, trees in various shades of green in their full, summer glory, a few
fishing boats here and there. It can often take an hour or more for the monkey
mind of my daily life to switch off, until I can allow the vision of the lake
in its stillness to begin to seep into me. 
Eventually, if I can allow myself to be present to the water long
enough,  I can begin that slow movement
into breathing with the lake. Watching the wind make its shifts on the water, I
can feel my own breathing slowing, changing, as I perhaps remember that
waterworld in which I, in which we all, had our beginning.

With more than 10,000 lakes dotting the Minnesota landscape, one of the gifts of
summer is that, with little effort, we have the opportunity for ‘lake staring’
within reach. Even city dwellers need only go a few miles before arriving at
water’s edge. There is something about being present to the water, about
allowing the shape and condition of the lake to wash over the state of  being human that is transformative. When I
think of the many healing stories of Jesus, I am reminded that so many of them
happened by the lakeside. While the disciples may have found themselves in
desperate straights, riding out storms or eating on the beach, they seemed to
always be changed by the encounter of Jesus on or near the water. Perhaps the
scripture writers left out the parts where staring was involved!

 Last night we sat and observed four loons who seemed to
simply be riding on the water. Their rhythm of bobbing and diving became a
focal point. As the day was drawing to a close, their black shiny bodies and
white accents of feathers shone against the glistening water. Their red eyes
were attentive to the human ones who were sharing their environment. They were,
no doubt, skeptical.  Every now and then
one would lift its body slightly off its water bed and flap its wings as if to
resettle into a more comfortable position. I found myself breathing with their floating
and gasping at their water dance.  What
does it mean to share space with such a gorgeous creature? It seemed such a
blessing.

After two and half days I will return to the regular rhythm
of my daily life, to the lists of what needs to be accomplished, to meetings
and laundry and all the tasks of being human, of living my life. If I am lucky, some place deep
inside I will be able to recall the gentle lapping of the lake, how the time
spent staring helped to heal my soul. If I have stared well, I might even be
able to breathe the rhythm of lake once again.