Part and parcel

The rain falls steadily and suddenly, as if God pushed an "on" switch for it to begin. Droplets fall heavily into the dark lake. It is dusk anyway, but with the impending rain, dusk falls with an eerie sort of light, an incandescence that makes the sky appear to glow despite the setting sun.

I paddle fast toward the shore. The hull of my kayak parts the dark water easily, its orange a stark contrast to this landscape. I find respite bobbing next to a moss-covered rocky overhang, hang on to an exposed tree root, and hoist myself up out of the boat. The moss feels luxurious - a soft, earthy carpet - and as my feet make contact with it, I am aware of its cushion of velvet goodness.

It feels oh so good to be here.

My senses are bombarded: the breeze kicks up scent of conifers across the lake; the rush of the wind raises goose pimples across my skin; the trees are so colorful with their dancing display of new life, and then, my pupils dilate to meet the flash of lightning.

Low clouds roll in, like a hoard of teenagers in a bad-ass pack. Together, they huddle, creating an ominous and dramatic presence. They move in closer, sneering at me.

Suddenly, I am keenly aware of how small I am. Here, under this pack of gray clouds, here, on this mossy bed, I am a spec of a splendor that will ebb on long after I am gone.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages."

Give me that wildness.

"Approaching Storm"