View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

I sit here now, as I do sometimes; looking over the water. It’s late November and people often ask me what there is to do at a lake cabin in November. No boating. No swimming. No ice skating or ice fishing. No neighbors. The last adds to the charm of a cabin November; just the two of us, married now for more than 50 years, an old man and an old woman and the November cabin. With a roaring fire in the fireplace and the view. Which sometimes takes my breath away.

Last night, I took on my winter coat and brought several heavy blankets and sat outside on our deck watching as the dusk came softly to the lake. The sky gradually turned darker until the whole world; the lake and the sky and the distant shore seemed to soften into different shades of blue. I almost felt myself melting into all the blue light and I was reminded of a poem by Ann-Heidrun Skår called “Det blå lyset.” (The blue light.) How the blue light of dusk calms the soul and how, when you stare into the blueness of dusk it is as though you can imagine heaven. I imagine heaven as a calm and comforting blue. And here are both Patrick and Erland. My soul stretches towards them, wanting to join them there, in the calm realm of heaven.

Never a day passes, when I do not miss both of them. For myself. And also for the rest of my family. We were complete before, with those two young men, torn from us in the midst of their lives, our lives.

The next morning, sitting in the warmth of our sunroom, I watch as dawn comes. And the bluish darkness turns into deep purples. I watch and can’t see where the water ends and the sky begins; they seem to blend. After a time, the sky begins slowly to brighten into shades of pink. As the golden sun emerges out of the water, the pink brightens, and flashes of orange appear where water meets sky. Across this breath-taking miracle of a new day, there is an outline of birds, seagulls, coming in never-ending, seemingly unending waves. And I marvel at the comfort and beauty of a new day that lies await for those of us that are still on this earth. Isn’t life worth the pain? If a person lives long enough, one will suffer and only through suffering can one really appreciate the joys and beauties that come if one is open to it.

I think of this miracle as I get up and try not to dread the coming of the holiday season with the seemingly happy family gatherings everywhere. I have to move on. I have to put on a happy face and pretend. I love my family and there are many left. They are wonderful people and fun to be around. Of course, the holidays will be fun and wonderful. I will not let my heavy heart show. Maybe I will even forget my grief for a while.

As daylight pours into the many windows of our cabin and the north-west wind howls around the corners, the formerly calm waters of the lake’s waves are whipped into a frenzy of whitecaps, I decide to make bread. And soup. Winter food. Cooking that makes the cabin smell of the cozy comfort of a cold, but short autumn day. I will stay contently busy until the evening comes again with its longings of travel into the blue light.