Life is filled with action sounds and waves of movement. Phones ring, televisions play, traffic moves loudly though often slowly. Planes roar as they clutch towards a distant sky. Dogs bark as neighborhood children run and shout in merriment soundings of voices.

Sometimes my bucket just gets full of noise! As the sounds swirl, my restless mind hungers for a quiet respite. The Psalmist tells us to be silent—to listen.
So when the monument of life appears on the precipice of moving me towards an emotional disturbance, I seek out a place of calm. A harbor of safety, where the bulwarks of nature protect me against the sound-provoked- trauma of a civilized world. A place where the sounds are natural, not tied to artificial trappings. A Mecca for meditation, where the only prerequisite for attendance is willingness to un-encumber oneself of worldly irritants and wade toward the pool of silence, drinking the water of inwardness.

There is such a place, and I have found it. Actually, it is just one of several places where I go to purge a troubled soul. Over the years, those that have read the column have heard me mention or talk about this sacred place. It is called Emerald Lake. It lies stilled and quiet; a small stone’s throw from my back yard. It a millennium’s distance in time from a busy life and carries with its presence a harbinger of good will.

It sits at the base of a small mountain, and gets life from underground springs that never seem to run dry. The mountain is one of the highest elevations in the county. It nurtures the lake, acting as a bulwark against sounds from surrounding activities.
A small dam helps to feed a meadow that is alive with butterflies and dragonflies. Spring flowers last well into the summer, hidden near cottonwood and birch trees that provide shade from an aggressive summer sun. Into this place I pour myself. Sometimes for hours, I am entertained by the wonders of this place and its lack of appetite from trifling sounds.
At night, the lake’s surface is glass smooth as the dense trees to the west and north keep maverick night winds in abeyance. A carousel of frog sounds line the bank, guaranteeing the health of the lake, as crickets make mating noises in the high grass.
A small walkway leads from my house to the lake. Traveled by many, but rarely do they pause to enjoy the majesty of the lake or the ambience that shows secrets held by its existence. There are dogs to walk, meals to prepare or gossip to be to be gathered. Its beauty remains undiscovered by most as they seem unable to recognize the gentle peace it holds. People too much in a hurry to get back to the noise of their world.

I like this place because it has self-edifying rules. Self-pity is not allowed. Self-judgment must be kept out. Reflection is allowed, but only in a spiritual sense. Temporal thoughts are allowed, but remain scarce, as even positive self-reproach is made to feel uncomfortable. You are encouraged to empty yourself of the world and her trappings and build building blocks about blessings and forgiveness. Success is measured not by gold or fame, but rather on the quickening of the mind, and tenderness of the heart. Fear is fleeting as the night birds in the tall trees. Beauty is recognized in the alertness of the mother bobcat as she encourages her cub to drink. The wind that walks the high branches is reminding me just how vulnerable and needy I am.

I journey to this place once or twice a week to get recharged. Without these visits, I would lose my footing and understanding or appreciation for things that are most important to me. Things like a loving God and adoring wife. Children and grandchildren that make old age more manageable. And of all the billions of people on earth, how I was lucky enough to be born in this place called America.

Well, the trip to the lake tonight helped me to empty my bucket. To write to you helped to fill it with the good things in this life.
Durhl Caussey writes a column read across America. He may be reached at this paper or dcaussey@sbcglobal.net.