I love how the mountains eat up the sound and give back a hushness—a dog’s bark all muted—along with the people voices around this lake.
Jay, Joel, and the kids marched into the trees—poles in tow. There are things to learn about toting a fishing pole—like watching where the end is so that you don’t hit anyone passing by—being patient while tying knots—or waiting for someone to tie them.
And then if one actually fishes—which I don’t—you learn to cast out just right and to reel in when something’s on your line.
And if you get a snag—well, then—there’s usually a long process of untangling a mess of line. And when fishing with children—I remember Jay returning to camp and saying he’d hardly fished at all for untangling snags. But, that’s fishing.
And that’s life.
There’s the watching out so that what we’re doing doesn’t injure another. There’s the patience of tying secure knots and the learning to wait for all that to happen—when to cast out and when to pull in.
And then the messes. There are always snags—always snags.
We might wonder why anyone fishes at all.
But, some days the fish bite. And the mountains always swallow the noise—and the cares and the weight—giving calm for another day. And the water catches the light.
In life—like fishing—there are tangles, there’s learning, there’s patience, there’s untangling, there’s light. There’s hope.
Even though I don’t actually fish, I’ve learned a few things from those who do.