The rain has stopped, and the sun is beginning to peek out from behind the clouds; so I grab my hoody and walk out onto the top deck to take in the view.
The lake is calm now. The winds have died down and although the laps from the water are fairly mild, there are no ducks swimming around. In fact, the woods around us are quiet -- all I can hear is the hum of a leaf blower or something like that from the resort next door.
I decide to walk down the steps and head towards the water's edge. I haven't spent any time in or near the water since coming here. The others are in a mad fight to the finish over Scrabble, and so I figured now was as good a time as any to take in the sights; and maybe collect my thoughts.
I head past the fire pit and outdoor kitchen, and start making my way carefully down the slabs of some sort of nice looking flat rock that acts as makeshift steps down the more steep areas of the property.
When I get to the deck at the bottom, I make my way towards a patch of sun that has dried the wooden boards and sit cross-legged, allowing the cooler northern rays to try and warm my face.
My mind is blank. But then a moment later it whirls out of control. Images over the past few weeks begin to swirl together; and I have trouble centering myself in the midst of it.
I think I don't know who I am.
"You're at an impasse," says a familiar male voice from behind. I open my eyes to see Garry Marshall smiling down at me. He takes a seat beside me on the dock and rubs my back for a second before continuing, "And that's ok. You're not always suppose to figure everything out."
I look away for a second, but then respond. "I think I'm lost,"
"We're all lost," he says with a big smile and then smashes a deck spider. I startle from the loud sound as his hand smacks the deck, and laugh -- because I didn't expect him to be so ninja-like when it came to killing spiders.
"Missed," he says and shows me his hand which is clear of any spider guts. "I hate the dang things,"
We sit there in silence for a moment and watch a family of ducks swim past us. The lake is calm like glass.
"What's wrong?" he says a moment later.
I answer right away, "I don't feel like writing."
He nods. I think he gets that writing is very much a part of who I am -- and so to be disconnected from it; essentially, is like walking through the world without a heartbeat. I feel half-dead.
"Your heart will heal eventually," he says and stands, "and when it does, I can assure you that you will probably do the best writing you've ever done."
As reassuring as he sounds, I have a hard time believing him. A moment later he is gone. And so, I sit there alone by the lake contemplating everything that is wrong, and trying very hard to not let the pain seep into my empty heart.
Because pain has an insidious way of changing the potential of who you are capable of being. And I don't want that to happen to me.
