On that miserable rainy Sunday there were two of us at the lake, a man who was fishing in his boat and I with my camera. Then a few days later I thought about the lakes I visited for a short time and the lakes I vacationed and stayed for a few weeks.
I remember a lake where I was learning how to row. A boat was big and heavy and it was difficult to row; I often had to take short breaks to rest. I didn't enjoy much rowing and being in the boat. The only one who was excited about our adventure was my three years old daughter. She was overjoyed and happy being in the dumb boat in the middle of the lake.
I remember how I washed my little daughter's hair with shampoo in the lake in the softest water on the Earth. I also did laundry there and let them dry on the grass. It was a summer vacation filled with little adventures like rowing, riding a rented bike to the small village store, learning how to cook with women in the big kitchen with many stoves, listening to the great stories in the evening and wishing that days would not fly so quickly.
Then it was a different country and a different world and the lake with the strange name "Bear Lake". Apparently, there were a lot of bears in the area when the Canadian fur trader and explore Donald Mackenzie saw this lake and named it "Black Bear Lake". In time the word "black" was dropped and the name of the lake became simpler and shorter.
When I saw this lake for first time I immediately felt in love with its vastness and its intense turquoise-blue color. There was something infinitely healing and soothing about Bear Lake.
Bear Lake
Writing, rewriting and then stopping. Rereading. Liking and disliking. Erasing and writing again. Why am I doing it? Another creative outlet? Memories within the memories? Tasting life twice in the moment and retrospect? Or creating something, just for the sake of it. For the sake of remembering and feeling fully human.
