Slowly, as a matter of principle

You can't hurry a sauna. Well, of course, you can, but it isn't a very good sauna. Sitting quietly, feeling the warmth penetrate that which aches, that which is tired, and then blasting it all with a couple of shots of steam, that's how it's done. The cold water of the spring is much more shocking than the same temperature in the fall. In the fall, we've grown used to the increasing chill. In the spring, we're starting all over again.

While we sat on the deck and cooled off, we were gratified to see a couple of bats swoop low over the water. We'd heard so much of the troubles that the bats have been having in the past year. These little brown birds are our friends, particularly on a still night when the black flies and mosquitoes are flexing their muscles.

The camp is full of details that can be considered as best practices, but can also be lived as a ritual, a way of living as well as a way of doing. Turning on the water, raking the yard, setting up the chairs so that we're ready for company - all have a touch of solemnity.

Each spring when I turn the water on, I'm bemused and befuddled by Huck's cleverness. Every nut and bolt has at least one washer. Every joint that connects water pipes has Teflon tape. He was, as we all know, not a man whom you could hurry. These extra touches of the washers and tapes were external representation of an inward pace that was all his own.

But, it isn't all seriousness. Since we cleared away some trees during the past few years, we're getting a lot more sunlight in and around the camp. We notice it in ourselves and we notice it in others. This morning, the sun was strong. Marley'd found himself a warm place to rest and was wagging his tail so eagerly that he dug a small hole in the dirt. Such are the pleasures that come to an old dog.