I’m at a point on a spiral in my spiritual training. I’ve faced this situation before, acquired knowledge, and improved. Now there’s more to learn. Then I’m on a plateau and facing a sheer cliff. The only way is up. There is another time I call boat and dock, reminded by experience on the water. Whether I’ve got one foot in the boat and the other aiming for the dock, or one foot on the dock and one mid-way to the boat, I feel unbalanced and insecure. This is the hardest adjustment, between lessons, when I will repeat in my mind certain words that calm me.
At Lake Sebasticook, our dad baited the hooks with worms, gave them back and told us to toss them out from the rowboat. We’d watch our red and white bobs, hoping for a jerk and the line being towed by a fish. Grampa liked us to bring home horn pout that he’d skin and send in to Grammie to fry. Our dad didn’t like taking the hook out of them. He didn’t like eels. We agreed with him about the eels.
At Schoodic Lake the water off the dock was waist deep. Stepping into the motor boat, I could see small stones on the bottom and minnows flitting through water clear as liquid glass. Moving smoothly into the open then picking up speed, my boyfriend at the wheel, I watched the white spume behind, the encircling trees sheltering a few camps, and the longitudinal lake widening.
My realization is, “Sometimes, we have to think about our balance, whether outer or inner, when we have less control. It is good to have a quieting practice to put into use then.