On August 20, I began the day by reading a sonnet by the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Late in his life memories from time in Europe and Egypt served as symbols for the plenitude and beauty of life:

In spite of Fate, the marvelous abundance

of being, like the brimming land

or like stone figures

built into gateways, bearing up balconies.

Or a bronze bell, lifting its voice

over and over against the dullness of our days.

Or that single column in Karnak, standing

long after the temple fell.

Today this extravagance flashes by

in the blur of our haste,

out of the wide yellow day into the vaulted night.

In that rush it dissolves, leaving nothing behind,

just as a plane overhead makes no mark on the sky.

Only our minds see the curve of its flight.

            (Sonnets to Orpheus, II, 22, Macy & Barrows translation)

On that Thursday I also went paddling. But to get to the lake I had to make my way through summer traffic, pressed and passed by massively powerful trucks and tourists in a hurry to get from one park to another or to town and back. When I launched my kayak from the Walstad Fishing Access, paddling into a modest but steady quartering headwind, I saw more boats on the lake than at any point I could remember––sailboats enjoying dependable wind, pontoon boats loaded with summer guests, fishing boats anchored in bays or trolling in search of lake trout at cooler depths, the drone of cigarette boats racing in the distance. When I reached Skeeko Bay I faced a hornet swarm of jet skis building speed, flipping left or right into their own wake, and casting huge waves of white spray. I had to pass through all four of them to get to a beach where I wanted to eat lunch. While in their midst I eventually caught the eye of one of the riders and had the sense that he saw me and that he and the other wild riders would cause no harm. When I landed on the beach next to a fallen cottonwood I retreated into the forest to distance myself from the noise and frenzy. I kept thinking about Rilke’s lines:

            Today this extravagance flashes by

in the blur of our haste…

In that rush it dissolves, leaving nothing behind…

While eating my sandwich in a misanthropic cloud I pondered the way we burn “the marvelous abundance of being” in fires fueled by gasoline, producing nothing but smoke and noise.

At the same time much of the rest of the day was beautiful and I softened while paddling through summer-warm water. In calmer conditions on the east side of Wild Horse Island I swam in Osprey Cove, saw a new guest house where an old lodge once stood, noticed that friends were not home. I rounded the southeast corner of the island and finally felt the benefit of a tail wind that allowed me to lessen pressure on the blades. Again, many boats to paddle through, including a large sloop on a close haul––a thrilling display of pure, wind-driven power. Able to relax before the assistance of the wind I saw a powerboat coming toward me, the motor throttled back. On a long towline the adults pulled two children on a large yellow tube. Because the boat was moving slowly and not trying to spill its load of tubers, I could hear the children giggling. With every bounce on the little waves, in each intervening trough, they laughed, not wildly but gently. I continued to hear the children well after they passed me by. After the roar of engines, the music of children laughing. In the blur of haste, mine and those around me, it would have been impossible to hear this sound of simple delight. At slower speeds we are better able to see and hear what remains of Rilke’s abundance of being whatever little mark it leaves on the sky.