These are the moments that make men weep.

It is 9:13am on the first day of August.

We've had a 2 week patch of colder than normal and wetter than normal that makes you feel that this is now normal. I suppose statistically normal has now been adjusted a wee bit towards abnormal. I guess that's normal.

I've also had an at least 2 week bout of inner "unsettled" to use a favorite UK term for uncertain, all over the place weather. My resting and underlying mental state has not been good and I know it. I've been quick tempered, easily disturbed and have been personally beating my self esteem with a stick until it is unregonizable. My lack of proper perspective has only been matched by the loud voice of disapproval that I apparently have given a megaphone to. I couldn't get myself to see the blessings of life let alone count them. So I've been trying to start small but meaningful and go from there.

This morning is nothing short of glorious! One of the local wordsmiths would probably frankenform a new word like unbefuckinlievable, whilst a millennial would coin "hella-gorgeous" to describe the pristine beauty. It's is 68.5 degrees and my weather App says it "feels like 68.5 degrees." Good to know. Continuing, there is visibility of ten miles, scant humidity and my ozone is classified as good.

Anyone would find it to be picturesque: sunny with a slight morning haze and a shiny, motionless lake. For me in particular it is not only currently beautiful but historically meaningful. For it is the memories of mornings like this that wrap the event in context. These are all visual touchstones for me.

I take in the lake of glass where everything seemingly in the world is reflected and the tall, dark green trees of the state park on the other shore. A duck mom looking like she's doing school "dropoff" with the parade of chicks following behind. There is a sailboat moored off to the left, bobbing slowly and listlessly about to be disturbed by the lone moving boat on the lake.

It is an exhilarating vision. A dark, blue bottomed skiboat with a white topside is skimming along on the surface of the water. Some 47' behind is a water skier with obvious style and talent. He arcs to the left knifing thru the wake, owing to his angle on the slalom ski. He one hands the rope handle, extending his arm out and leans into the outside cut with the shoulder almost touching the water, creating a backlit fantail spray as a smooth change in direction is effected.

This reminds me of my summers when we were slalom snobs...only skiing in the early morning or the still goldness of the sunset. Snobs because we would only don a vest and gloves if the conditions were pristine. When you are skiing at those times you can see the multicolored rocks and the rippled sand art flying by beneath you. There are no offending waves from the winds or opposing wakes from other boats. It is a dance on glass. The boat motor sounds fade into the background and you can hear your ski skimming across the water and a soft whoosh as you carve a semi circular turn that is not dissimilar to artfully crafting an arc on fresh snow powder. The air is clear and fresh, your senses are on high alert...fueled by adrenaline and the cool water spray is most refreshing. Mr Blue Bottom is feeling all that right now and I'm thankful that he brought his performance art to my part of the lake.

As the he fades into the distance an old aluminum fishing boat putts into the scene and will now take his place on the water, anchored at the shelf where 6 feet becomes 30. The angler is backlit creating an On Golden Pond silhouette as the rod settles following a long, slow motion cast. That movie has always reminded my of my childhood on the lake whether I was out in a shiny, wood classic or a slow leaking row boat. Uncle Socks would smoke a dark cherry smelling pipe, tie his own intricate trout flies, and weave a semi believable tale that made the mornings sail by. Why by the time he banged the pipe bowl against the hull, we were ready to unwrap the wax paper for ham spread sandwiches and pop open a cold root beer.

I walked out on the weathered planks of my "old school" dock towards the end and did a slow 360 from the water to the sugar sand shore to the tall trees of Bonner Hill over to the yacht club point and back out to the center of the majestic lake. I took a long look up to see blue skies with just a few airbrushed clouds and I marveled at the restraint of the artist. Looking down into the water that most vodka companies would describe as at least triple distilled clarity..there are tiny minnows, a designer like assortment and placement of rocks and stones, and a glimmer of that one large lake trout that I let live in peace under the boat lift.

This is a fine morning. It is 68.5 degrees and feels like it....and did I mention the visibility? From here I can clearly see the abundance and form of gratitude and hear my exhale of peace. I also sense that the humidity is on the rise.