A Lake Runs Through It
by Michelle Jarvie
Pink and orange sunsets that quietly gaze over the rippling water. Swaying trees of all ages that tell me the story of new life from death. My paddle swimming through the water, crafting the only movement I see on a summer morning in my kayak. I'm watching my yellow lab jump off the dock then turn around, realizing in his excitement that he missed the dummy. I anticipate my bobber plunging underwater and the ensuing fight where I may break my line. And the relaxed, content look on my father’s face.
This is why I love spending time on northern Minnesota lakes.
Recently in Park Rapids, my dad and I went fishing on his birthday. I broke my line with the first fish that took my crawler, but was given a second chance later to reel in a 16” large-mouth bass. I enjoyed catch and release as my dad and I reminisced about “better” fishing days where two minutes didn’t pass between bites. I place the word “better” in quotation marks, because the act of catching fish is only half the reason we go.
When I was very small, I wondered why my dad was always happy after fishing, whether he brought anything home or not. I’d hear him say, “It’s always a good day when I’m fishing.” As I matured and struggled through my teenage years, I came to understand that simply being part of nature was the most important part to my dad. He always taught me to respect nature and make sure every day I spent time outdoors. I especially loved our father-daughter canoe trips on the St. Croix or in the Boundary Waters, learning how to survive and how little we actually need. I remember not wanting to go home and leave the simplicity of these silent, sacred places.
But I didn't grasp the extent of his wisdom until my first husband was killed six years ago. At that time, I thought my life was over. I had a very difficult time believing that my broken pieces could ever make a new pattern, as if my life were a kaleidoscope. So, I spent a lot of time alone.
With the help of my parents, a couple extraordinary friends, and time, I started opening my eyes again to beauty that was still visible in the world. We concentrated on visualizing where I felt peace and labeling what I saw when I was outside, trying to empty my emotional mind.
I came back to the birds singing, the tall pines, the radiant red flowers, the determined weeds growing through cement, and the continuity of flowing water. I spent hours looking at the water, either while sitting on a rock, in my kayak, or off the deck of my parents’ home. When I was upset and grieving, I would dip my fingers in the water to calm my senses and feel something so stable and trustworthy. It helped me reconnect with a part of the world I loved, rather than focus on how unfair and ugly the world can be.
Life has changed a lot since those tumultuous years. In 2015, my new husband and I will be welcoming our first child. My dad and I are thrilled as we think about teaching this new life the meaning of the water, the healing properties of nature, and the anticipation of catching bass, pike, and walleye while trolling, fly fishing, and ice fishing. We will take pictures with luminous sunsets in the background and say every time with gratitude that it was a great day.
Even if it rains, we don’t get a bite, or the canoe tips over … it’s a great day on the lake.
by Michelle Jarvie
Pink and orange sunsets that quietly gaze over the rippling water. Swaying trees of all ages that tell me the story of new life from death. My paddle swimming through the water, crafting the only movement I see on a summer morning in my kayak. I'm watching my yellow lab jump off the dock then turn around, realizing in his excitement that he missed the dummy. I anticipate my bobber plunging underwater and the ensuing fight where I may break my line. And the relaxed, content look on my father’s face.
This is why I love spending time on northern Minnesota lakes.
Recently in Park Rapids, my dad and I went fishing on his birthday. I broke my line with the first fish that took my crawler, but was given a second chance later to reel in a 16” large-mouth bass. I enjoyed catch and release as my dad and I reminisced about “better” fishing days where two minutes didn’t pass between bites. I place the word “better” in quotation marks, because the act of catching fish is only half the reason we go.
When I was very small, I wondered why my dad was always happy after fishing, whether he brought anything home or not. I’d hear him say, “It’s always a good day when I’m fishing.” As I matured and struggled through my teenage years, I came to understand that simply being part of nature was the most important part to my dad. He always taught me to respect nature and make sure every day I spent time outdoors. I especially loved our father-daughter canoe trips on the St. Croix or in the Boundary Waters, learning how to survive and how little we actually need. I remember not wanting to go home and leave the simplicity of these silent, sacred places.
But I didn't grasp the extent of his wisdom until my first husband was killed six years ago. At that time, I thought my life was over. I had a very difficult time believing that my broken pieces could ever make a new pattern, as if my life were a kaleidoscope. So, I spent a lot of time alone.
With the help of my parents, a couple extraordinary friends, and time, I started opening my eyes again to beauty that was still visible in the world. We concentrated on visualizing where I felt peace and labeling what I saw when I was outside, trying to empty my emotional mind.
I came back to the birds singing, the tall pines, the radiant red flowers, the determined weeds growing through cement, and the continuity of flowing water. I spent hours looking at the water, either while sitting on a rock, in my kayak, or off the deck of my parents’ home. When I was upset and grieving, I would dip my fingers in the water to calm my senses and feel something so stable and trustworthy. It helped me reconnect with a part of the world I loved, rather than focus on how unfair and ugly the world can be.
Life has changed a lot since those tumultuous years. In 2015, my new husband and I will be welcoming our first child. My dad and I are thrilled as we think about teaching this new life the meaning of the water, the healing properties of nature, and the anticipation of catching bass, pike, and walleye while trolling, fly fishing, and ice fishing. We will take pictures with luminous sunsets in the background and say every time with gratitude that it was a great day.
Even if it rains, we don’t get a bite, or the canoe tips over … it’s a great day on the lake.
Michelle is an English teacher and writer working toward publication of a book on young widowhood. She holds a master’s degree in public policy and seeks to inspire younger generations. Residing in Plymouth, MN, with her husband Sean and puppy Walter, she tries to visit her parents, Jeff and Olga Mosner in Park Rapids, as often as possible.