On Water

Kansas City has been experiencing a great deal of rain lately. Fortunately for six lucky 20-somethings, the sun broke loose over the Ozarks last Saturday.

Friday afternoon, a car was packed and I headed out with a couple of friends and a 30 pack of beer. Lake weekend had begun. After the obligatory twisty roads and Grateful Dead album – the Grateful Dead exudes sun, in my consciousness – we hit lake town. We broke out a celebratory beer and wound our way to Charles’ grandparents’ cabin. We unloaded the car in time to walk down to the dock and watch the sun set.

The weekend was rife with descriptions (in my head): the shocking cold of the water contrasting with the heavy warmth of the sun; the way beer tastes better when you drink it on a boat; bare feet on warm, old wood; the fluff blowing from the dock’s innards onto the water – a secret duck’s nest with seven eggs revealed. People fished; I dangled my toes in the water. I got up earlier than I would’ve liked, and slept sprawled on a couch in front of an open sliding door. I didn’t talk on the phone; I almost went the whole weekend without showering. Phones and showers aren’t necessary at the lake.

But the best part about this lake weekend, this cinco de lake celebration, was that nothing happened. Yes, we had fun. Yes, we drank too much and got sunburns. Yes, we laughed and talked and grilled. But no one fought, no one yelled, no one planned things or went anywhere. Nothing happened. The sun rose and set, people ate, drank and slept, and the lake welcomed everything. It was perfect.

Now I'm back home, back at work. I wake up at the same time, drive the same car the same direction, and sit at the same desk for the same amount of time. I go back home, watch TV, read books, and do it all again. This can all be labeled: this can all be called something. "Nothing happened" is unforgivable here, in the scope of this life. Structure rules and fills the time. All the water - the rain, the humidity - is a burden here.

So, to copy NPR, I believe in the lake. I think we're pretty lucky to spend a sunny weekend in May commandeering a lakehouse, riding a boat, sitting in the sun, and doing nothing. I believe in doing nothing.