Sabbath

Just since I was out on Thursday afternoon, the colors are coming in the trees. The colors are muted, partly by the cloudy day, partly by the fact the colors here aren’t as crayon bright as the mountains or northern states. The trees are still lovely with an occasional swamp maple flaming up, the burgundy of sweet gum and the yellow of beech. It is cooler, I began wondering about switching my sandals for rubber boots. A long sleeve shirt might have been good, but paddling for two hours warmed me. The green herons have flown away, some of the blue herons have moved on. It was quiet on the lake up at the far end, only the cries of birds disturbed by my passage.

Sunday afternoons are often quiet paddles. I’m not planning a message or learning Scripture. Sunday afternoons I find myself breathing deeply and just being at peace. I didn’t even make an effort to think of what I might write about, just enjoyed each view. On a sheltered bank, there was the last cardinal flower of the season; the salt bushes were fuzzy white. The wild asters white, with an occasional purple one.

People ask, “Don’t you fish? Don’t you take pictures?” No, I go just to be. I’ve caught a fish, but accidentally. He was dragging a bobber behind him and I pulled him in, unhooked and turned him loose. I tried photos. Someone gave me a waterproof film camera. I hadn’t realized until I tried to focus that my kayak bobbed so, even in what looked like calm water. Multi-tasking, not on Sunday afternoon, that’s for paddling, looking and breathing. Enjoying the deep, healing peace, the shalom of Sabbath.