Big, Beautiful Lake
I decided to get out of the house and escape to the big, beautiful lake instead of worrying further about this big, beautiful bill.
The sun filtered through the mulberry trees, fermenting the fallen berries, muddled by passersby. A lone Hmong woman in a straw hat and plastic gloves was foraging beneath the branches. As I approached, I watched her gently shake each branch within reach, carefully collecting the mulberries that dropped into her basket. I wondered what they tasted like. I’ve never had a mulberry cobbler, pie, or otherwise. Growing up, my dad kept raspberry and blackberry brambles, and of course, plenty of rhubarb. Our pies rarely featured other fruits, except in the fall, when our apple tree offered a modest harvest of Granny Smiths.
Beyond the mulberry trees I came upon the shady hill that slopes gently into the lake. My heart swelled at the sight of six Falun Dafa practitioners sitting cross-legged in the grass. As I hadn’t quite yet arrived at the lake proper, I was still shaking off residual static of anxiety. It often feels like there’s little I can do to change the world for the better. But seeing people peacefully pursuing zhen (truthfulness), shan (compassion), and ren (forbearance) was a reminder to be anxious for nothing. The birds of the air above me do not sow or reap. The lilies of the field all around me do not labor or spin.
A stroll around the lake is was exactly what I needed to clear my head.
On my way home, I passed the Franciscan Brothers’ friary. The brothers wear black habits tied with a simple cord, three knots representing the vows they’ve taken. No cassock or collar.
I usually see Brother Paschal walking during recreation hour before evening prayer at 8 p.m. But seeing them through the friary doors on a Sunday made me feel like an accidental voyeur. I admit I’m curious what Sabbath worship looks like behind those doors.
When I was young, I used to daydream about becoming one of two things: a human rights lawyer or a nun. Once, at Bible camp, our family was asked to design a crest that represented our home. We were given a blank shield and a few markers. My dad asked each of us what symbol best represented us, then carefully drew it onto the crest. When it was my turn, he smiled and asked, “Nun or lawyer?” After some discussion my symbol became a gavel. A seeker of truth and justice—both earthly and spiritual.
The crest hung in our dining room for years, until our family grew apart. Though I didn’t become a nun or a lawyer, I still seethe at untruths and injustice. It’s probably a good thing I live within walking distance of that big, beautiful lake.