The Reservoir of Life
Mirror Lake and The Stupid Fish In It
This post addresses death, as well as the continuation of life, and that might not be something you want to read about at this particular time, so I want to give you a heads up. I am often disturbed by various media that casually engage with subjects and themes that I am not in the right state of mind to think about, so I want to be considerate of my subscribers and not do that to any of you.
I haven’t written anything in a long time. There are several reasons for this—I work a full time job, I do freelance work on the side, I volunteer with a local nonprofit, and to be honest, it’s mostly because there are aspects of writing that are difficult for me. I don’t find the actual act of writing to be difficult, and in fact I enjoy it, but it is almost always preceded by a strenuous passage through a thick presentiment of dread, caused by the awareness that I am planning to confront my thoughts in a very direct manner. Sometimes you just have to take a deep breath and burst your way through that creative filter.
In an earlier post, I commented on a photograph that I snapped near Blanchard Springs in the Ozark region of Arkansas back in April. The photo is of a reservoir called Mirror Lake, which is created by the damming of the water that emerges from the spring. It is a beautiful reservoir! The water has an emerald hue caused by the saturation of limestone crystals that are washed into the stream as water flows to the earth’s surface.
My mother and I stood in silence on a platform just above the waterfall that is created by the dam. For me, these simple pleasures have always been a highlight of being alive. I find few things as transcendent as the opportunity to fill my senses with the beauty of our planet’s biological systems (even those that are modified by humans). As I cherished the sound of the water crashing below, along with the beauty of the placid forest-lined artificial lake feeding the fall, I noticed a small school of fish swimming right near the water’s edge.
“Whoa! What if one of them just slipped over the edge!” I wondered, and with an inner-chuckle I replied to myself, “Shit, the other fish would have to assume that one just died! Over the event horizon into the unknowable. The truly unknowable—that waterfall is definitely a one-way trip, and that fish could never return to the lake to tell the rest of them that there is an entire North Sylamore Creek to be explored on the other side!”
I thought about the remaining fish and imagined them mourning the loss of their classmate. I imagined those fish grieving their loved one and wishing the missing fish could still be there to enjoy the beautiful reservoir that they lived in, the only reality that any of them have ever known.
“Kind of ironic that it’s a fake lake,” I thought. “Imagine the other fish feeling sad about one leaving their little communal pond, the realm that they believe to be the totality of existence, when, in fact, that fish is the only one who has left the fabricated habitat—the temporary pooling of the natural flow of water that began upstream of the reservoir, and that continues long beyond it.”
Then it occurred to me, what if what I’m photographing is not a mirror of existence, but rather an accurate model of it? What if life, in the dimension through which we experience it, is just an artificial habitat—a temporary pooling of the natural flow of energy that began upstream of the reservoir, and that continues long beyond it?
I’m sure that any fish that end up going over the dam remember fondly the time that they spent in the comfortable reservoir. They probably had their favorite spots, and they probably appreciated the stability of the diffused currents within the nearly stagnant “lake” that allowed them to swim around freely. They probably enjoyed the comfort of being amongst their school, and the comfort of the environment that they had become so familiar with.
Then, as they entered the stream, and with an appreciation for the opportunity to experience all that had been concomitant to life within the reservoir, they probably felt overwhelmed with the exhilaration of existence outside of that artifact. Their only complaint—that they are unable to report their discovery back to the other fish: don’t worry, the lake’s not even real, it’s just a fabricated opportunity to experience something that within the waterway system is actually an anomaly, enjoy it while you’re in there, and there is so much more.
One of the reasons that the anticipation of writing this post has triggered such anxiety for me is because in the time since my visit to the Ozarks, I lost my Aunt Charlotte, someone with whom I have always felt a special bond. And so I dedicate this post to her, and I try to remind myself that I’m just a stupid fish who struggles to understand.
