My tranquil spot

   

They say everyone should have a safe spot in their mind where they can go, mentally, to find peace, tranquility, respite from daily confusions. For many years, mine was a small outcropping on a dune above Lake Michigan in the Indiana Dunes State Park. My family had a cottage higher up on the dune, and we spent many happy summer days and nights there. I remember going to “my spot” with our dog, a wild collie mix, a female inappropriately named Timmy. She loved to roll her shoulders in the dead fish on the beach, but when I called her to my spot, she would come obediently and sit quietly by my side. From that spot, I could watch the sun set behind the distant skyscrapers of Chicago. On a good night, the sun would be an orange ball, and the skyscrapers but tiny black dots against it.

I won’t pretend that I meditated or thought deep thoughts when I sat there at the age of seven or eight, but I do know as an adult, when troubled, I would close my eyes and imagine myself in that spot, with Timmy, watching the sun set. It was soothing and somehow made me feel better. Sometimes, but not always, it helped me think clearly about whatever was troubling me.

In the last couple of years, that dunes perch has given way in my mind to a new spot: sitting in rocker on the shore of the tiny lake in Tomball where that branch of my family—Colin, Lisa, Morgan, Kegan, and Grace the dog—live. When I visit in the summer, we take glasses of wine down there at sunset and sit to enjoy the encroaching dark, despite mosquitoes and flies and gnats. The water is always calm, though an occasional fish breaks the surface.

There’s no swimming in the lake—snakes and pollution from the stables next door prevent that, so the family swims in a pool. But my grandsons have fished from the bank with more enthusiasm than results, and occasionally some venture out in a canoe.

This Christmas visit I had not been down to the lake in five days—we’ve been too busy, and the evenings have been too chilly. But today, about four, Colin helped me down the stairs and brought a glass of wine. The lake was absolutely still, its surface like glass, and the temperature was neither too warm nor too chilly. I could stare at the lake and see a tiny house on the not-too-distant shore and another house, closer, on the side of Colin’s property. In the far distance I could see—and barely hear—cars on Highway 2920.  I soaked up tranquility. Not sure I’m a better person for it, but I am a happier camper.

Tomorrow I go back to Fort Worth, but I am already looking forward to a summer visit. And until then, I have my safe spot in my mind.