January 10: "Look," Lake Superior, Angels

Billy Collins opens his eyes . . . 

Look

by:  Billy Collins

The morning lake 

was smooth as a mirror.

A few angels were even seen

flying down

just after dawn

to check themselves out.

I have lived near Lake Superior almost my whole life.  When I was a kid, it was just a 20-minute drive away.  The library where I now work is just a three- or four-minute walk from the big waters.  There's something incredibly comforting to me in that proximity.  When I was in graduate school downstate, surrounded by asphalt and concrete, it felt as if a part of me was missing--a big, tundra-sized part.

In winter, Lake Superior is rarely smooth as a mirror, as Collins says in today's poem.  There's always wind or clouds or snow, and gray dominates the landscape.  That doesn't mean that angels don't fly down just after dawn to check themselves out in its surface.  In fact, I would say that, when the lake is the color of January, blending with the sky, it's difficult to determine where the world ends and heaven begins.  We all sort of become angels, searching for our reflections in its chaotic cold expanse.

And really, that's what living a good life is all about, isn't it?  Somehow trying to be reflections of the divine here on Earth.  Maybe we're all just Lake Superiors, angels dancing across the surface of our bodies.

Yesterday, one of my sisters fell in her driveway and fractured the radius and ulna in both of her wrists.  A freak accident.  Both of her arms are in casts, with just the tips of her fingers sticking out.  For a person who's used to being self-sufficient, she is now fairly dependent on others.  I stopped by her house on the way home tonight to drop off some pistachios (one of her favorite snacks) and see how she was fairing.

She's frustrated.  In pain.  Coping.  In an instant, her life has gone from Lake Superior on a clear, calm July day to Lake Superior roiling with winter and wind.  It's not easy seeing angels reflected in yourself when the gales of November come early, as Gordon Lightfoot sang.  

However, I've found that angels tend to be much more visible in the midst of struggle and storm.  It's as if a skim of ice melts from the surface of your eyes and, suddenly, angels are everywhere,  Bringing you glasses of water.  Sending you loving text messages.  Helping you in the simplest and most profound of ways.

Like life, Lake Superior's moods are wildly changeable.  They can't be controlled or subdued or trained.  Anyone who has lived near its shores for any length of time understands this.  Respects this.  Finds beauty in this.  And if we open our eyes, we can see angels reflected in its glacial waves.  Sometimes, those angels look a lot like ourselves.

Sometimes, they even look like Saint Marty.