Not quite four a.m., when the rapture of being alive
strikes me from sleep, and I rise
from the comfortable bed and go
to another room, where my books are lined up
in their neat and colorful rows. How
magical they are! I choose one
and open it. Soon
I have wandered in over the waves of the words
to the temple of thought.
And then I hear
outside, over the actual waves, the small,
perfect voice of the loon. He is also awake,
and with his heavy head uplifted he calls out
to the fading moon, to the pink flush
swelling in the east that, soon,
will become the long, reasonable day.
Inside the house
it is still dark, except for the pool of lamplight
in which I am sitting.
I do not close the book.
Neither, for a long while, do I read on.
~Mary Oliver

A couple of weeks ago I spent some time staring out at the waters of Lake Sylvia. It is a beautiful lake on which our church’s retreat center finds its home. One of my favorite spots there is a swing the size of a porch swing that faces the lake. Sitting on it provides that perfect combination of water moving in the breezes with the rhythmic, calm movement of swinging. Back and forth. Back and forth. I do this to allow my spirit to catch up with the often frantic pace of my body’s full-speed-ahead movement in the world.

I arrived in the early morning having driven a little over an hour through early rush hour traffic. My bloodstream was probably also pumping with caffeine. Sitting in that swing allowed my pulse to slow and my mind to stop following whatever shiny thing that passed across its radar. Slowly, ever so slowly, the back and forth motion did its trick and I found myself become fully present in the moment. My breath became deep and purposeful, rich and full with this precious life.

My eyes had also stopped darting from thing to thing and I stared into the middle distance. That’s when I heard it. Out in the middle of the lake, the tremulous, rich sound of the loon bounced off the waves of water sending its song toward my listening ears. The moment became complete and utter joy. I continued my back and forth motion to the song of summer’s call.

This was my first loon song of summer and I felt so blessed to have been present to it, actually aware of its gift to me. I looked across the glassy surface of the lake as the black and white dots and striped body descended deep into the still freezing waters. Soon I would see its head emerge in some other place on the lake as I marveled at its ability to hold its breath and travel so far. It seemed at that moment there was just me and the loon awake and aware of the privilege of being alive.

I did not grow up with the sound of the loon. It was not a native bird to my southern Ohio roots. I believe we were probably only a fly-over zone in their migration pattern. If this Minnesota bird was a part of my youth, I was oblivious. But once I established these northern climes as home, the sound of the loon has come to signal so much. Hot summer nights. The freedom of moving from pajamas to swimsuit. Food cooked over open fires and under warm,starry skies. Lazy reading into the wee hours of the night. Being awakened by the nearby sound of flapping wings on water and the mournful cry of this strong yet mysterious bird. Soothing small, sweaty children whose sleep was disturbed by the same magical sounds.

Loons have many calls, many songs they sing for various occasions. Most are mystery to me as I’m sure my language, my song, is to them. All I know is that when I hear that plaintive, haunting tone ring through the air, something calms in me and I feel grounded in something deep and ancient. A freedom rises in my throat and I sense the possibility that comes with embracing summer.

A lake. A swing. A loon song. Deep breaths all around.