one late summer day last year I needed to spend some time in thought.
I drove my zippy little car up the canyon I know best through cycling, down to little dell reservoir, and paid $5 to drive to the parking lot by the dam end of the reservoir, where I got out from behind the wheel and walked, sandals flopping, down to the edge of the water.
once there I took off my shoes and waded in where the water was clear, balancing carefully on the small, slippery rocks. I stood, water lapping against my calves, and stared at the dam, the hillside surrounding the reservoir, the sky, the occasional ripple of a curious fish.
a couple with two young children were pulling their canoe out of the water, everyone's pants rolled to mid calf, everyone a bit bedraggled as families with little children usually are.
as I stood there, watching the clouds, a woman walked down the concrete path from the parking lot carrying a small blue kayak perfectly balanced on her head, her left arm raised and lightly touching the blue molded resin. I watched her walk to the water's edge, set her kayak down, then wade out, climb aboard, and set off across the water.
it struck me: this is what I need to do.
I need to get myself a tiny little kayak and bring it here to this beautiful spot of the world, and paddle off in peace. when I need to clear my head, when I need solitude, when I need restoration. I could just paddle around this small reservoir---it's calm, safe, limited, contained---that would still allow me to feel the soothing motion of the water, the power of my own pulls, the serenity of the quiet oasis so few people visit.
I'm sure they sell a roof rack for a mini that will hold a small kayak.