"Night Swim"

Sunday night there wasn't another soul on the lake.

The weekend revelers had gone home. The year rounders had all tucked themselves in their cozy cabins.

I am alone on the dock.

It is warm and still. Silent.

There is a faint, gray glow over the glassy lake although the sun had set hours before. I'd expected compete darkness. Instead I can see the dark outline of the opposite shore. The glistening lily pads. The proud heads of wild rice stalks. Standing tall, now.

If ever there was a time for a night swim, this is it.

I slip in. Water smooth as silk on my skin. Only my skin.

My breath catches with the momentary chill. I warm as soon as I move.

What is is about the night swim that feels so pure? So purifying? Is it because there is nothing between us and the water? And it feels we have returned somehow to a more natural state. To the very beginning.

Is it because in the dark we are just a little vulnerable? Trusting that we are safe in the darkness that surrounds us. In the dark water that envelopes us. In the unknown.

I paddle away from dock and turn back toward shore. I gasp. Overcome by the beauty of what I see.

The full moon, bold and luminescent, is perfectly framed between the boughs of two giant pine trees. It's radiance warming the surface of the lake. Casting moon shadows on the shore. Just below, the cabin. Small and tidy. Windows glowing with warm, orange light.

I stay in the water for a long time, tears in my eyes. I am so grateful.

I climb onto the dock. Usually this would mean a scramble for a towel. Modesty and the night chill would dictate that. But the air is so warm and the lake so deserted that I just stand there, arms outstretched at my sides, trying to take in as much of the night as I can.

Later, I describe my night swim to a friend who says, "Wow! That was a thank you God moment, wasn't it?"

Amen to that, my friend.

Amen to that.