This morning I greeted the sun through an east-facing window. From the arbornaut’s Writing Studio bedroom, through the living area, and past the kitchen, the sun glowed an invitation to notice. I pulled the blind, looked through the rectangle of glass. Orange and yellow light spread over the prairie horizon, sloping hills and big skies. Outside the studio with a view of the west, the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains were awash in pink and yellow.. I inhaled and noticed the exhale was longer, deeper, than expected. Relax. Let go.

Thank you.

Later, I remember this moment. Relive it. Add to it:

Welcome whatever comes.

No need to plan.

I am safe. No wind or waves to paddle.

Everyone around me is doing fine.

I am safe.

For how long? For how long?

We take Athena for a walk down to Ghost Lake.

When the wind sweeps west across the lake: I turn away. I stay back from the water’s edge. A whole body shiver runs through me. “It’s cold,” I say.

Athena is in and out of the water, without hesitation. Soaking wet, she shakes after each stick-retrieval and bounds again into waves, undaunted by wind. Soon she shakes and shakes after each retrieval, once near the water, the second time near me. The water feels like little balls of ice when it hits bare skin. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my fleece pants, press my arms close to my body. I’m glad I’m wearing a hat, otherwise my hair would be flying across my glasses, in my mouth, tangling and tangling at the nape.

I notice the mountains now. Like seeing old friends, I smile and nod. The dam seems smaller than the last time I saw it. The wind carries different sounds than I remember, different feelings of cool and aloft-y-ness (the quality of something indescribable in the air. Also, a hovering expression of matter.) I notice I’m at once analytical and appreciative. I wonder why so much thought? Why not experience it and move forward?

Athena listens when we call her out and away from other dogs, danger, chipmunks, rabbits, people. Mostly. She stops to assess the context she’s in before she responds. (Meaning, she pauses and decides if she wants to come!) I notice I oscillate between my perception of what she might think freedom is: doing whatever she wants when she wants to and what she might think punishment is: being coerced to participate in my way of doing things.

She must ask in her own puppy head, what can I trust? Where am I safe? Am I always loved?

Do I really think I know what she is thinking? This is a projection. These are my thoughts, these are my big concerns. Am I placing them inside Athena’s brain, creating a mirror for this expression of me?

Do my thoughts shape Athena’s experience? Likely? Obviously? Under some circumstances?

I try to let go of my questions. I try to live my questions. I try to figure out what the hell I am thinking and why I am thinking it. And, then, I notice the world around me. The details.

Athena is a gentle canine companion. She calms easily, will remain still amid much chaos. She expresses joy quickly and with great abound– her long body wiggles with delight. She knows how to dance.

I notice I have become more calm and more joyful since she’s arrived.

How do I serve love?

Athena dances like a small horse, planting her front pads into the ground, builds momentum, pushes her weight up and back– she bucks out her back legs, her fancy tail flies. She moves back and forth in this dancing motion. I sing a song, a percussive beat to encourage her: ta dat, ta dat, ta-dat-ta-dat-ta-dat. I remember my mother’s voice, her nursery rhyme rhythm and wonder if she sang this same beat to me?

Athena noses me for treats and I ask her to sit next to me. Treat. Treat. Treat. Consistency. Praise. Reward. Consistency. I ask for her obedience to ensure her safety. We are a team. We look out for each other.

I’m looking for evidence of the kinds of experiences we can do together. Experiences we’ll learn from and look forward to and experiences to help her life feel full of meaning and purpose. (another projection) I’m wondering if she’d be interested in becoming a therapy dog. I’d be interested in spending time with older people. I have dreams about them telling me stories and me writing letters for them to people they love. I don’t know what will come true from my dreams. Many things have not come true. Many things have. I wonder if dreaming is like moving into a field of possibility… I dreamed of living in a house with my daughter/son-in-law/two grandchildren. The house was near nature. I live in the house I dreamed of in January of 2021. On Ghost Lake.

My novel is set here. The Arbornauts, a horror/psychological thriller, is alive each time I’m here. Isn’t Ghost Lake an incredible setting? Just the name! Years ago I wrote a short story with the character who is now the villain, the monster of the novel. His name is Sean. I set the short story on Ghost Lake.

Many people have reason to be fearful of Ghost Lake. Death. Drowning. Life abruptly interrupted.

Ghost Lake doesn’t scare Athena or me.

Trust. Safety. Love. All these things grow here.