In the cool of the evening, I walk down the winding street toward the lake. The sunlight is fading gently into deep yellow and orange, the feathered clouds tinged with pink. There are a few joggers and dog walkers about, and we exchange a nod and a soft greeting. I pass gum trees, bottle brushes and clusters of ducks; one such flock is clearly a family, with a mummy, daddy and several adolescents, and the daddy duck is eyeballing me. I understand and give him a wide berth.
As I follow the river in the direction of the lake, the wading birds emerge, picking their way through the long reeds in search of food. I watch a wader pull tenaciously at a long reed and peck at its roots, his tail flicking upwards like a waving hand as he works. Other birds, crags and sterns, perch high on the uppermost branches of the gums, watching the bugs begin to swarm. Dinner time.
I breathe deeply. There is something about the air of twilight that soothes me; the smell of trees and of nearby stagnant water hits my nostrils and I inhale gladly. I don’t know why nighttime air smells different, but I like it.
There is something about the air of twilight that soothes me.
Birdsong fills the air. The feeding has begun. I reach the lake and watch swallows dive in and out from under the lake bridge, chattering happily as they nip at bugs in their flight path. Something about their swift movements lifts my spirits. I lean on the bridge railing and watch them for a while. In the distance, a duck drifts lazily across the lake.
At the entrance to the bridge is a large weeping willow, its drooping arms draped across the walkway. Here I pause and look up into its branches swaying gently in the breeze. I reach up and brush my fingers against its long, slender leaves.
And there I mourn. The grief wells within me and I weep beneath the aptly named willow, pouring my heart out into the lake below. I weep for all I have lost through illness: physical movement, a pain-free existence, the ability to work full-time, peace of mind, peace with God, sanity. I weep without words, without solutions, without answers. My tears are a prayer.
Grief gives way to silence. The pain is still there; the problems and questions have not gone away. Yet there is space around them now. I breathe, lingering in silence a little longer. I watch the swallows, the ducks, the rhythm of rippling water; somehow it all resonates with the rhythm of my heart. The scene is soaked in deep orange as the sun tips over the horizon.
It is time for me to go. The mosquitoes are out and the air has grown distinctly chilly. As I head home, I silently give thanks for the lake and for places like it that drip-feed beauty into my life and invite me to breathe. It’s not only restorative, it’s a reminder that I’m still alive. After everything illness has put me through—dangerous flares and near misses—I am still here, still breathing.
Just for now, I am grateful.
Does beauty help you deal with chronic illness and other challenges? What helps you find that breathing space for yourself? How might silent prayer help you at the moment? Share your story. Let’s have a countercultural conversation.